Pushing Buttons
by blc
Summary: Angst-fic. Possible eventual B/B. Was an M-Rated Magpie's Nest, but by request, now a multi-chapter. Ch. 30 now up.
1. Chapter 1

_**Angsty. One shot at this point. I just don't have the inspiration for a make up scene or hot monkey make up sex or apologetic lovemaking that isn't cliched. If you've an idea, though... please let me know!

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_**Pushing Buttons  
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He didn't know what came over him. One minute, they were having a fight, a fight he'd picked after a case when apprehending the murderer failed to elicit a confession, when discovering the whodunit had no satisfaction, where their victim, the abusive husband killed by the wife's sister, had arguably deserved it, and solving the case provided neither of them with any solace-- and now this.

They'd had to go to therapy with Sweets right afterward, and at least had managed to double team him in telling him he had no clue what it felt like, especially knowing they were going to have to go through it all over again, when the trial came around, and there was a real risk a jury might sympathize more with the killer than the victim and let her walk. Justice might actually be on her side, given the facts of the case.

But they'd gone back to his place after picking up takeout, and he'd been furious all over again, slamming things on counters and tables, ripping his tie off and tossing his jacket carelessly over a lamp, and quickly downing two shots of whiskey as Bones watched him cautiously, serving herself some fried rice and a beer. He grudgingly served himself some, and then a third shot of whiskey, the fire burning through him almost as hot as his anger, but failing to quench it.

She'd remained silent as he ranted and raved, slowly eating her food and sipping her beer as he paced and shouted. She was more than patient with these temper tantrums of his, once he really got started, and more than once woke up to find she'd helped him to bed, or draped a throw over him on his couch when he'd finally passed out from too much whiskey, or fell asleep after dragging her into his lap and holding her, breathing raggedly into her hair in an attempt to calm himself down.

Why she put up with such possessive, needy behavior, he never knew, but she indulged him-- which tonight somehow made him even angrier. He would lose control in this small way, and she'd be quiet and sympathetic and pretend like it never happened the next time she'd see or talk to him. He hated how she could be both so perceptive and sympathetic, and yet so oblivious. Four years they'd been working together, and she still seemed to have no clue that he was not only in lust and in love with her, but so far over-the-edge jealous when she went on dates these days that he honestly worried that one day he'd snap. Of course, it was hardly fair to expect her to clue in to something he'd never told her-- at least his anger and anguish and rage at the outcome of these less-than-clear cases was clear, something she could easily decide how to deal with.

So he picked a fight, shoving her food aside on the coffee table and sitting down right in front of her where she sat on the sofa. These cases pushed all of his buttons, and here she was acting unfazed.

"You're awfully calm for someone who just helped arrest someone with every possible justification for doing what she did." He didn't know why, but he poked her in the shoulder.

She looked at him quietly, then said "The justification doesn't excuse the fact that she still should have stopped short of murder."

"And you would?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't know. I've never been in that situation."

"Well, well, well. So nice to hear Saint Temperance come down off her high horse and admit she has feelings like the rest of us humans," he sneered, leaning in so she was almost backed into the sofa.

She literally flinched like she'd been slapped. "Don't take it out on me, Booth," she warned, voice still quiet like she was trying to calm him. She was trying to calm him. Goddamnit, he was sick of being managed-- why did she have to be so fucking patient with him when all he wanted was to rip her clothes off right here and fuck her until she screamed for him, drawing the rage out of him with each shrieking climax he knew he could give her. Why couldn't she just punch him, or slap him, or claw him with those nails she kept short but which would still be long enough to inflict enough pain to distract him from how much this case hurt him?

"Why not?" he hissed, leaning forward even further, until she was actually backed into his sofa in order to avoid touching him, he was so close.

"You're the one who figured out it was her, did that kinesthetics thing that you do, and now her two kids are going to finish growing up knowing that their mother's a criminal. Doesn't that bother you at all, Temperance? She was a good mother, no matter what else happened when she lost it and killed that sick fuck. Don't you think that's enough offset? Did you ever think for once about what it might mean if you managed, somehow, not to figure it out just for once? Let two kids who were well-taken care of, well-loved have their mother. You know damned well she wouldn't have ever done it again."

She didn't let this case push her buttons? He'd damned well do it, then. He was tired of her indulging him. He wanted her to be as outwardly angry as he was—be so enraged that she'd kiss and claw and fuck him as insistently as he wanted to fuck her right then and there.

Instead, she looked back at him, eyes wide at the verbal assault, and spoke, this time less calmly. "Are you suggesting I should have thrown the case, fixed the evidence?"

He sat back and looked her over, appraisingly. "Maybe I am."

She flushed suddenly, angry, then stood and looked at him. "Then you shouldn't have arrested her. Told her that I was right. Confronted her with the mechanism of injury. You disbelieved me once before. If you wanted to throw it, it's on your head, Booth. Don't ask me to compromise the facts, the truth that they yield, because you can't bear the idea of doing your job every time it's a tough one."

He stood and got into her face. "It's a good thing, then, that you weren't working those robbery cases when your own parents were still working that gang, hunh? You'd have put your own mother away."

She didn't flinch this time. She jerked, like she'd come into contact with a live wire. Rather than yelling or punching him, though, she stepped to the side of him and silently gathered her things, heading for the door.

He stopped her by the sheer expedient of grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her up against the back of his door, his own body leaning into hers so she didn't have time to kick him in the nuts or otherwise try to get free.

"Booth, stop it," she said, eyes welling with tears. "Just... stop it. I understand that you'd upset, but just... don't take it out on me."

"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded roughly. "You gave me no choice but to take that woman away from her kids. I couldn't toss that evidence once you were done with it any more than I could pick up the truck. It's your fault that she abandoned her kids. How does that feel, Bones? Her kids are going to go through the same thing you did. Feel better about truth and justice now?"

"You're drunk," she said, "and you're being an unwarranted asshole. Let me go. I'll think about forgiving you when you're sober."

"How about I'll think about forgiving you when I'm sober, Bones," he growled. "Maybe you're the one who's done the inexcusable."

He didn't mean any it of course, he was just so angry at the facts of the case that he had to lash out at someone, and she was there. He wanted her to scream back at him, punch him, show she was as angry as he was, but no-- she just internalized everything and once again showed that calm front to the world. He was so tired of it. He wanted an honest reaction from her. This flinching and self-denial were driving him crazy.

"Maybe, Bones, just maybe, you should think about the fact that I'm tired of having a robot for a partner."

Her face turned utterly still, and drained so white he could see through her. "Well, then," she said, her voice totally strangled as tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks, "you should let go of me so I can go, and not inflict myself on you any longer."

That was it? She was going to put up with him severing their partnership just like that? What the fuck was wrong with her? Why wouldn't she fight him? Didn't she care? It was too much.

"Goddamnit, Bones," he said, leaning even further into her, "what the fuck is wrong with you? Where the hell is the spitfire I started working with? When did you become so meek and mild?"

She just looked at him, eyes wide and her breathing becoming increasingly shallow.

"Well? Answer me." he demanded, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "Answer me, goddamnit," he ordered, his hands flexing on her.

She started to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth.

"Answer me!" he shouted, letting go of her shoulder and blasting his fist into the wall next to her head in his frustration.

And then, something he never thought he'd see happened. She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, and she fainted. And now he was sitting here on his floor, with her head in his lap, all the anger and liquor burned off as soon as she slipped out of his grip and started to collapse to the floor. She'd been out for five minutes already, her breathing still shallow, and a cold sweat breaking out on her. Him, too.

What the fuck had he done?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Many thanks to all for your insistence I go on with this one, and many thanks to CSINaomi and NCCJFan for the ideas of how to continue**_.

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Poor Booth, she thought to herself. He was really wound up, more than usual. She wasn't sure she'd be able to get him to calm down well tonight, though his anger certainly fueled hers as they both rounded on Sweets for his cluelessness and insensitivity when it came to the injustice of arresting a woman who under different social mores would be utterly right. If she were a lioness, no one would hold her actions against her-- she was just protecting her pride. She was fairly sure she would have done the same, if push came to shove. She was just glad she wasn't pushed. Anthropology and the study of culture would always yield to humans' anatomical, animal instincts, she'd come to believe over time.

So here Booth was, pacing and growling like a caged tiger at the zoo as she picked at her rice and sipped at her beer. He downed two shots in as many minutes, seeking that liquid oblivion that never made him violent, just dulled the edges of his anger enough for him to get bleary and sleepy so she could lead him off to his bed, or made him sad and yet calm enough so that he merely needed to hold her until he felt better. She didn't know _why_ she made him feel better-- lord knew she rarely had anything to say other than "I know" or "I agree" after these kinds of cases, but he seemed to take solace in her company, in the fact that she would agree with him that the case was heartrending, that doing their jobs didn't always feel right, and that these cases made them doubt whether it was worth it to keep going. It was when he expressed these doubts that he inevitably pulled her into his lap and rocked her, after she tried to tell him they had to keep going whether they were tired or not, and over a half hour or so, his breathing would slow, and she could unfold herself from his embrace, shift him onto his sofa, put a throw over him, place the kiss she never dared make when he was awake on his forehead, and go home. Even snipers needed teddy bears sometimes; he just needed the solace of another human being, a literal creature comfort. She didn't begrudge him the need; she just wished it was more... personal.

She watched as he served himself some fried rice and chicken wings, ignored it, and downed another shot. If he kept it up at this rate, she'd be helping him into bed in an hour, maybe less. She never mentioned his physical neediness to him afterward, never mentioned these expressions of doubt and anger at all. He didn't like feeling weak. She just wished he needed her at other times, that he needed her as something other than the only person besides him who understood how wearing it was. But he only cared for her as a friend, only tried to reassure her about her own loneliness because he cared about her-- if he wanted her as a woman, he would have acted long before now. He wasn't shy, and he was physically, intellectually, and sexually secure, stimulating and vital. He wouldn't hesitate to fulfill his own needs if he was actually interested in her. That he didn't? She tried not to think much about how she felt about that.

The only needs he couldn't fulfill without her were these-- the cases where they both wished they'd never been called in in the first place, or the ones where the crime was so heinous it was all he could do not to kill the murderer right then and there. The latter never bothered her-- if he were a lion, no one would hold his actions against him, and sometimes, animal instincts might be better than civilized ones. She wanted to dislike the death penalty, but sometimes... she couldn't. She'd been tempted to tear someone's throat out more than once-- given in, too, and couldn't regret it.

But then he turned on her, and she was shocked. He was accusing her of handling this calmly? Did he think she was here just to babysit him? She needed his company as much as he needed hers-- she just wasn't capable of giving vent to her anger as he did. She was either on, and killing or punching someone, _a la_ Pam Nunan, Veleska Miller, or Gil Lappin, or off and restraining herself. It was all or nothing, she was too stunted to have any medium point. It was all control, or none whatsoever. His restraint was a marvel to her. So she repeated to him what they both knew-- that they had to adhere to the mores they'd both sworn to uphold. But then... he accused her of not having feelings, and she began to get angry.

She put as much distance between the two of them as she could with him sitting in front of her, the tension and anger rolling off him as he leaned into her space, invading as always, but this time with something almost approaching... menace. He was picking on her the way he picked at a suspect, pushing her buttons until she reacted. She wouldn't let him get to her, even as he reminded her that yes, if it wasn't for her, those two children would have their mother reading them stories and tucking them into bed tonight.

But how _dare_ he suggest she should throw the case? He'd brought her the case-- he knew where it was going as soon as he pulled the victim's arrest record. He could have aborted it at any point, claiming the suspect leads brought him nowhere, so they never interviewed anyone whose height, weight, and physical strength would then be available for kinesthetic analysis. So she confronted him, and he actually had the gall to suggest she should have tampered with evidence. She let him have it. If he was going to throw cases, he should throw them, and not ask her to be his conscience and guide. He was the one who consulted her-- not vice versa.

But then, he brought up her mother. It couldn't have hurt more if he'd literally stabbed her through the heart. She knew he was just pushing her for a reaction, but that... it stole the wind from her. It hurt even more than when he was dead and then when Zack betrayed her-- he did it _on purpose_, where those other things were just horrible happenstance, that he hadn't intended, and/or been able to help her make stop. But this?

She couldn't do this tonight, not when he was drunk enough to be nasty, and yet not enough to be cooperative and let her put him to bed. She slipped past him and gathered her things, only to find herself almost slammed into the door, her head knocking hard against the oak as he pressed up against her. His full weight bore down on her so that she was effectively immobilized-- his hands gripped her shoulders so tightly it actually hurt. He was hurting her. On purpose. He wasn't that drunk.

She tried again, asked him to stop, tears pricking her eyes more at his words than the physical pain he was causing her. He just amped up the insults, his features contorted with anger and what she knew was self hate, except he was taking it out on her. Just like her first foster father had, and in much the same way. Too much to drink, and accusing her of doing things wrong that she had nothing to do with, and grabbing her when she tried to make her escape. She tried one last time to be brave, to challenge him with the anger that often cooled him when she unleased it on him, but then ... he called her a robot.

She could handle the nastiness, might even forgive him for the words about her own mother-- but to be accused of being unfeeling when _every single day_ she stuffed down how she felt about him for the sake of his lack of feelings for her-- how she kept herself from telling him that the next time he died it would probably kill her. She hadn't been able to eat or drink those two weeks he was dead, and she'd tried to. Woman cannot live on unrequited love-- at all, and oh, how she'd tried. But if he still thought, after all this time, that she was robotic-- she'd never believed in a broken heart before until she literally heard and felt her own in her chest shatter and crunch like a teacup you accidentally stepped on. She found herself telling him she'd stop inflicting herself on him, only to have his expression change from hot rage to something else she'd never seen before, and had no idea what it meant. He gripped her shoulders harder, so hard that a pain shot down her arm as his fingers dug into her median nerve, and she stifled a cry.

It had all happened so fast. If it was anyone else, she'd have found a way to kick him in the testicles, but the shock of Booth-- the man she thought she could trust when she couldn't trust anyone else-- turning on her? It was like waking up that morning when she finally realized her parents just weren't coming home. She felt paralyzed.

"Goddamnit, Bones," he said, his weight on her pressing her so hard into the door that her sacrum and occipatal knob hurt from the pressure, and her lungs started to physically empty, "what the fuck is wrong with you? Where the hell is the spitfire I started working with? When did you become so meek and mild?"

She couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening. He wanted to sever their partnership, and he was right, he knew hearts better than she did, she was weak, and she'd fucked this case all up to hell and now two children were without their mother and it was _all her fault_. It was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening. She... couldn't... breathe.

"Well? Answer me." he demanded, tightening his grip on her shoulders, as another pain shot down her arm where he pressed in so hard. "Answer me, goddamnit," he ordered, his hands flexing on her.

"Answer me!" he shouted, letting go of her shoulder with one hand to slam his fist into the wall next to her head.

The reverberation of his fist hitting the wall literally created an aftershock running through him-- the fingers of his other hand still gripping her so tightly flexed in reaction. An excruciating pain shot both into her neck and her arm. It was the last thing she remembered.


	3. Chapter 3

_**  
Many thanks also to helenluvsboo for her POV suggestions.

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**_How was he going to do this? "Umm, hi, 911? I scared my partner so much she passed out and now I can't get her to wake up, and by the way I've had too much to drink? And, oh, yeah, I can't believe that I just made the woman I love actually think I could hurt her? Or that I actually did hurt her? So, yeah, send an ambulance?"

That wouldn't work. And yet she still wasn't waking up, and she was pale, and sweaty, and _holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck_, his dad used to do this before he'd get truly drunk on a bender and beat up his mother. He... oh God. It didn't bear thinking about, not right now. He had to make her wake up, make sure she was okay, at least physically. He could go throw himself on his sword afterward. What was he thinking? '_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me_?' It was completely the opposite with his Bones. She could put up with "mere" physical discomfort... but words, accusations, seemingly logical reasoning, attacking her self-esteem, the trust he'd so grudgingly earned at first... that was a whole other ballgame. He was so _cruel_-- he would have hurt her less if he'd flayed her alive-- and there she'd been, trying to help him, and he turned on her just because she wasn't an animal. Like he was. Because she could accept that things weren't always fair, but you had to uphold standards, she was just doing what they'd both sworn to do with these cases.

It wasn't her fault. And he was so wrong, so wrong, to try to provoke a reaction from her. It was his line, he'd drawn it, how the hell should he expect her to know? He lied for a living. He lied to live, period, first in the Army, doing psyops and Ranger School and then getting captured, then that poker face that lasted him longer than anyone had a right to before he hit rock bottom, and now in the interrogation room. He was a liar, through and through, and yet he expected her to see through all that, despite the fact that more than half his lies these days were the ones he told her.

He pulled her up further into her arms, incapable for the moment of remembering all the common sense field trauma and First Responder training he was supposed to have, supposed to know as part of his Army training and job. All he could do was hold her and look at her and think over and over-- what the fuck did he do?

"Please, please, please, Bones, wake up. Please, Temperance, please wake up."

He supposed he was saying it aloud. It was hard to tell what with the complete, utter panic and all. Why did she break out in a cold sweat? Why was she so pale? If he'd just scared her, she should be awake by now. Shouldn't she?

She moaned weakly, jerking a bit. He held her more tightly, registering again from far off as he stared at her that he was saying, "Oh, God, Bones, please, just wake up, please, I promise I'll do whatever you need me to, just please, please wake up."

She was right. He could have, should have tossed the case after he pulled the vic's arrest record. Certainly never interviewed the wife's family, once he'd ruled out that the wife didn't do it. How dare he tell her that it was her job to throw the case, to let the murderer walk? He was the cop. He was the one who arguably had discretion-- not the squints. It wasn't her fault he'd pressed this one through.

"Bones, please, please, please wake up. Please, Bones, please," he said, pulling her further upright so she was all the way over his lap, her head cradled in the join of his arm and his shoulder. He should call 911. He should get up off the floor. He should do something except just sit here, paralyzed. She was breathing more deeply and sweating less, but oh, God, she was still out, and what was he going to do?

He was blubbering, he knew it, he had tears and snot running down his face, but it didn't matter, all that mattered was he'd acted _just like his father, just like his father, just like his father_, and there was no way she was ever going to forgive him.

"Come on, Bones, please, oh my God, please wake up, oh, I love you, please just wake up," he begged, hoping _for the love of God please_ that she'd hear him.

She moaned again, turned a bit in his arms, then whimpered. He immediately set her away from him just enough so he could look at her-- her face was screwed up in pain.

"Come on, Temperance, please, just talk to me, please?" he begged all over again. She opened her eyes to look at him as he shifted her a bit so she could lie flatter-- but she flinched-- physically flinched, looking at him.

"Put me down," she said weakly, holding him at arm's distance with her left arm.

He didn't want to, didn't ever want to let her go, and yet couldn't do anything but what she said to. He slid her off of his lap, and she lay on her back for a moment, eyes staring up at the ceiling-- anywhere but at him. And then rolled onto her right side, groaned, and pushed herself up with her left hand, her faced screwed up in pain all over again.

Her right arm clamped hard against her side, her neck hunched to the right, she looked at him as she stood over him with a completely unreadable gaze-- except for the physical pain she was in. He'd hurt her-- physically, too. Bending, she picked up her things with her left hand, shifted them with a visible wince to drape over the right arm, and stood waiting for him to get out of her way.

That's right. He was still huddled against his own door, more terrified now than he'd ever been when he was taken and tortured, and all because of a beautiful woman shorter and lighter than him that he'd inexcusably, disgustingly, unforgivably bullied. She waited for him to get up and get out of her way, and when he still found himself paralyzed, she turned her back on him and headed toward his back door, not saying a word.

His last view of her was the way she shifted awkwardly to open his rear door with her left hand, her right arm still clamped against her side. His last sound of her was the faint groan as she tried to look back over her shoulder at him-- only to have some stabbing pain make her visibly flinch again. She turned, then, and walked out the door.

What the fuck had he done?


	4. Chapter 4

She was one mass of fire from the base of her skull to her fingertips. No, third through fifth oh, God, it hurt phalang... oh, why was she moving so much? someone was jostling her that really... ow ow ow ow. Did she just whimper? Temperance Brennan didn't whimper.

Someone was talking to her, but that ow stabbing ow burning ow tingling how could she have tingling and burning those were supposed to be different neural... oh... who kept moving her? It was making it worse, oh, God, make them stop.

"Come on, Temperance, please, just talk to me, please?" It was Booth. Booth's voice. He was the one who kept moving her. What? Where was she? Better open her eyes and look.

He was upset about something-- eyes red, crying, sniffling... she'd never seen him like this and what was the matter with... oh, God, that hurt so much when he moved her. Better get him to stop.

"Put me down," she said, moving to push away from him with her left arm. Oh, her voice sounded really weak. He looked like he wasn't going to do as she asked and all of a sudden she remembered... he must have pinched her median nerve when ... something in his eyes changed, and he slid her off his lap. She lay on her back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling-- anywhere but at him. He must have pinched her median nerve when he... oh, God, his floor was too hard, it hurt her sacrum and occipital knob, why did those hurt?

And then she remembered, all in a flash. The fight, the accusations about her mother, the suggestion she should have thrown the case, the way he'd used his physical strength against her when all she'd been doing in the first place was try to help him, her practically begging him to stop. When had she gotten so weak? When she started loving him, and then he called her a _robot_. Her heart made that crunching teacup sound again. She thought he knew her. He did know her. She was weak, and oh, God.

Oh, God. He'd severed their partnership, and never mind that yes, she'd been in pain. She could have said something, should have said something, but instead, she'd been breathless, paralyzed, everything weak that embodied someone incapable of taking care of their victims. And then she'd gone and passed out on him, when objectively she'd been through far worse, including that first foster father's fist, that actually slammed into her face instead of the wall next to it. She'd taken a loving mother away from her children, and he still showed restraint, and she, puling milquetoast that she was, goes and faints on him because she's so screwed up that she can't just tell him she loves him, ask him for his help in sorting out the way that she felt. She had to get out of here before she did something even more burdensome, like burst into tears and guilt him into taking care of her.

She rolled onto her right side, groaned, and pushed herself up with her left hand. Oh, God, that was so incredibly painful, even trying to bear her weight on her left arm. She tried to keep her right arm still, and oh, fucking hell she couldn't straighten her head. She avoided the urge to shake her head to clear the pain, clear her thoughts-- it would exacerbate the pain, make it worse. She was already in a cold sweat and shaky from the shock of the pain shooting in both directions along the nerve.

Booth was just sitting there, watching her, his face mask-like. She'd never seen him closed off like that-- even with suspects. He was done with her. Bending, she picked up her things with her left hand, shifted them... oh, God, that pain all the way up to her neck again, grit the teeth, come on, work through it... to drape her purse and coat over the right arm. Was he going to get out of her way? She was being ridiculous. Of all the times to expect him to be chivalrous, when really, she'd have been lucky to have woken up outside on the sidewalk. She was pretty sure she could make it out to her car, though she wasn't entirely sure she could drive. She'd see. She wasn't that far from her house, even closer to an E.R.

He was still just staring at her, that stone look on his face. She needed to leave, now, clearly. She turned her back on him and headed toward his back door, not even begging forgiveness as she so desperately wanted to. She needed him, and yet she'd done the unforgivable to two children whose mother only killed to protect her sister, protect her nieces and nephews, carry out a biological imperative... if she just kept her mind occupied the pain wasn't so bad but ow, oh, the knob on his back door was on the right side.

She reached across herself, struggling to open the door. She was so weak she couldn't even do that. What he must think of her. Did he still have that stone look? Oh, one word of anger or accusation from him and she'd throw herself on the floor. She didn't care. She'd never begged for anything aloud in her life, but this... this was him, this was different. Perhaps if she looked at him one last time, he'd shout at her to leave and yes, she'd make one last try but oh... ow ow ow, grit those teeth, forget that the pain is making you nearly white out. Stop. Breathe through the pain. Ignore the cold sweat pooling in your breasts, on your forehead, in your shaking hands. You're so weak. Just stop trying. Just give up. Just go.

She pushed the knob, and thankfully it yielded to her pitiful weight. She walked out the door.

The sound of the screen door slamming behind her was like what? The sound of a stone lid sliding over a sarcophagus, except this time instead of being the discoverer, sliding the lid off to discover and catalogue the remains within-- this time, what remained of her was inside, and the lid closed, leaving darkness.

Somehow, she made her way to her car, parked a few down from his apartment, made it in despite the searing burning stabbing ow ow ow ow and got herself belted. Raise that right arm just enough to get the key in, turn... oh, my God, don't pass out just turning the key, when all that needed to be done was shifting the car to drive, and then she could drive with her left hand until she reached her point of arrival.

Alright. The car was started, and she was finally getting some control over the pain. She made it as far as the second intersection before the need to stop from a speed more than ten miles per hour left her vision greying, and new sweat breaking out on her forehead. What had she been thinking? If she passed out, she would kill someone. The hospital was just two more blocks. She willed herself to make it that far, and somehow managed it. Somehow managed to get the car in park and the ignition turned before...

Oh, where was she? Yes... the car. She must have passed out again-- only two minutes or so, though. Get your purse and keys, she told herself, turning and stifling the cry she felt trying to tear its way out of her throat. Fine, got it, and somehow she made her way to the front of the E.R., though she wasn't quite sure how. One of those fugue states people in shock get, she supposed.

The triage nurse took a look at her and immediately looked concerned. God, she was weak, if something so simple as a pinched nerve was making her look that uncomfortable. The nurse came around without a word and immediately guided her past the door, her arm at Brennan's waist on her left side, somehow holding her so as to relieve some of the pressure on the right nerve, but here was the test of getting up on the gurney and oh oh oh it hurt...

A light in her eyes? "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?" she heard herself ask weakly, trying to turn her head from the light.

"And your name?"

"Temperance Brennan." At least she could answer that question, as speechless as she'd been with Booth.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Saturday the third of January... 2009."

"Good, thank you." Ah, well, Brennan thought, at least she was oriented times three. The light moved. A young doctor, either a new attending or a senior resident was looking at her, a look of concern on her face. "Is there someone we can call for you? And do you remember what happened?"

Think. Think through the pain.

"You can cal Seeley Bo--" No. She couldn't call him anymore. Ever again. He didn't want her, not that way, never did, and her weakness made him do the right thing by ending their partnership. "Angela Montenegro." Amazingly through the pain she recalled her cellular number out of hand. The doctor was already scratching it on a chart.

What happened? That was the next part. What happened? '_I was so weak and mewling that my partner unwittingly pinched my median nerve and I fainted_?' They'd have the cops at his house in a second. Think. How else did a median nerve become injured? Traumatic impact reverberating from an outstretched arm, yes, that was it, but she had no other contusions, how to explain?

"I tripped on a bit of curb on the sidewalk, went to stop myself with my hand as I fell on some grass and snow, and this pain just..."

The young doctor nodded, accepting. "You just sit there for a few moments, I'll have your friend called."

"Thank you," she managed, then sat back against the back of the gurney, closing her eyes against the pain and the dizziness and the nausea and the pain... only some of it physical.

What had she done? How had she ruined it all, thrown it away?

What had she done?


	5. Chapter 5

He had no idea how he got through the weekend-- it was like a blackout, all he could recall were flashes.

The screen door shutting behind her.

Sitting there until the cold sucked all the heat out of the house and his own shivers jolted him to get up and close the door, finally.

Pouring out every last bit of alcohol in the house into the sink. The whiskey, the vodka, the scotch, every last bottle of beer.

Sleeping-- except not really. Jerking awake every time he slept enough to reach a dream state, sitting bolt upright with some denial on his lips at her fainting and pale and then flinching-- flinching away from him, and limping away from him cradling her arm. He'd hurt her, he'd hurt her, just like his father, just like his father.

He never heard from her-- was too scared to call, didn't hear from Angela or her father, either. She made it home, though-- Sunday morning he went by her apartment, and her car was there. He didn't recall driving there, though-- just being in her lot and making sure she was home. She never called the cops on him. Even after what he'd done to her.

His hand hurt, bruised, the skin on one of the knuckles split. It didn't hurt as much as the hole in his heart-- the one he'd put there. The hole in the wall, the hole in his heart, the hole in his life.

Sunday night he found himself at a meeting, the first time in years, he didn't know what he did the rest of the day. He hadn't been to a meeting since he'd met her, not really. He was addicted-- she'd replaced the itch for the cards. But now-- he didn't need the cards-- he needed a drink, even though that's not what this meeting was for. He couldn't admit it, even as some of the faces were familiar and had been comforts in the past. He couldn't bear talking, admitting out loud what he'd done, and just sat there, listening. At least he wasn't the only miserable sonofabitch there. He did manage to avoid the offer of cigarettes at the coffee break. He'd smoked only briefly, at the start of the end of the gambling, but stopped quickly, knowing it would be too hard to stop if he didn't cut it out then.

And then, somehow, it was five o'clock in the morning on Monday, and he had to go to work. Oh, God. What was he going to find? A pink slip? A bounce down to the dregs of the desk jockeys? A suspension? A few D.C. cops waiting for his explanation in his boss' office?

He'd been sweating from fear all weekend-- he stank of it. He had to stop, face what he'd done like a man. He went for a punishing run for an hour, and at least the fear stink was replaced with the mere smell of exhaustion. He showered, dressed, looked with revulsion at the takeout containers from Saturday night still on his counter. Threw them out on top of the bottles of now-emptied alcohol, the remnant smell of it all making him sick. He closed up the bag, made it as far as the back door, oh God, the back door she'd walked out of, walked out on him and he damned well deserved it, and swallowed the small bit of vomit that rose up as he leaned through the door to drop the bag in the trashcan.

The coffee was done and he drank it black, two whole mugs of it. It didn't wake him or warm him. The thought of anything more than that made him sick all over again.

He made it to his office, again without recalling the drive, oh this was bad, it was like those PTSD blackouts he had those first few months after he got back from the Gulf and the painkillers from the hospital ship all wore off, and made it up to his desk, all before seven thirty. Usually at this time he'd be at the lab, coffee and muffin and greeting for his beautiful, brilliant, addicting partner in hand. Not this morning.

No pink slip, no cops, no angry voice mail from his boss. His computer turned on, his email opened.

"_Please be advised that after suffering a non work-related fall this weekend, I will be unable to conduct field work with Agent Booth due to a serious nerve injury, and will be working limited hours at the lab for the next two weeks. Kindly direct all inquiries for forensic anthropology assistance to Dr. Saroyan during this time._

_Thank you.  
Dr. T. Brennan._"

She hadn't reported him to the cops. Hadn't even ratted him out to his boss or Cam from the looks of it. She'd written a reasonable note to his boss and Cam, copied him on the email. Why did she do it? Why not throw him under the bus? What had he done to deserve that?

What had he done?


	6. Chapter 6

_**Well-- with so many excellent suggestions, I had more than a bit of inspiration. Thanks to all who commented and PM'd. Pesky work calls, alas, so enjoy this chapter, I hope.**_

_**

* * *

**_"Sweetie, what happened?"

She woke again to Angela's voice-- soft but insistent, her hand brushing Brennan's hair back from her face. Still in the Emergency Room. Except now her right arm felt dead and her head felt woolly. A nerve block, and a sedative or painkiller for good measure?

"Fell. Landed on arm. Nerve pinched," she managed, almost proud of the way she managed to recall the lie under sedation.

"Where's Booth?" her friend asked, eyes narrowing.

"Home..." Brennan answered. "Put him to bed after some shots of whiskey he drank... fell after I left," she responded, finally waking enough to register the skepticism in Angela's eyes. She looked down at herself, and saw they'd changed her into a hospital gown, and there were oh no, oh no, oh no, Booth-shaped finger mark bruises on both shoulders. Including, she was sure, one between his thumb and proximal phalange over her right median nerve. They knew that she'd lied, and that at least someone larger than her was responsible for her injury. Oh no, what if Angela had already done something about it?

Angela shook her head. "Don't give me that, Bren. If he didn't have something to do with it, you would have called him."

Tears instantly sprang to Brennan's eyes. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, her voice shaking. "Please?"

Angela breathed out a long exhalation. "Give me one reason I shouldn't go over there and kick his ass personally, or call the cops on him. Bren, do you know what the doctors said about how hard it is to physically pinch a nerve like that? Where else did he hurt you?"

Brennan somehow found the strength to reach across and grab Angela's wrist. "No-- it's not like that, that's all there is. Please. We had a fight, and ... well, suffice it to say it was my fault."

Angela looked at her keenly, and seemed to somewhat believe Brennan, since she was of course telling the truth. "I have a hard time believing that whatever you did could have justified squeezing you so hard that he pinched a nerve. But I'll reserve judgment so long as you promise me to tell me the story before Monday morning."

Brennan nodded, letting go of Angela's wrist and sitting back against the bed. "Promise," she said.

"Sleep a bit more, Bren."

Sleep she did, Angela bringing her home in Brennan's own car at around 5 a.m., the doctors wanting to make sure Brennan knew how to renew the nerve block and that all her other vital signs were steady. Angela got her undressed and into bed, then crawled in on her left side and held her hand until Brennan slept. Creature comfort, Brennan said bitterly to herself. She slept until almost past noon, waking only to the sound of Angela talking on her phone to someone.

"Yeah, no, she's still sleeping, Hodgie. She... fell on the sidewalk after she and Booth had too much to drink and she'd already gotten him passed out into his bed."

Thank God, Angela was covering for her. Thank God. She fell back asleep.

She woke, bolt upright as he was pounding his fist into the wall demanding she answer him, this time the words "Because I love you!" shouting from her lips as she startled awake, looked around. Her own bedroom. Angela running in. The words too late on her lips, too late, too late.

"Sweetie," she said, as Brennan's tears started streaming freely again. "Tell me what happened. Please?"

Brennan obeyed, backing up as far as their usual habit after these cases, and Angela listened without interruption, her own eyes glittering at the tale.

"Oh, Ange, what did I do?" she said, wailing in her distress. She missed Angela's mouth, angrily pressed into a line, as she held Brennan and soothed her.

"Shh, sweetie, we'll figure it out," Angela said. "You just rest. I'll send an email to the lab and Booth's boss telling them that you're mostly going to be out for two weeks, okay?"

Brennan nodded, sniffling. "Would you? Please? I'm not sure I can go in tomorrow..."

"That's fine. Tell me your email password and I'll log on, forward your emails to me, and send the email from you, okay?"

Brennan sniffled again, choking as she said "It's brainyjasper, all one word."

Angela, not missing the figurines next to the bed along with a picture of the whole team, pursed her lips again while Brennan was rubbing her eyes with her sleeve.

"Okay, sweetie, I'll go take care of it. You sleep some more, okay?"

Brennan nodded, obeying, and gave her friend a weak "thanks," when Ange pulled the covers up over her, kissing her forehead.

Angela did as she said she would, then sat thinking.

Monday morning, she made sure Bren re-administered the nerve block, took more painkillers, and agreed to call Angela before noon if she needed anything. "I'll be back then, but you call me before if you need me, okay?" Brennan just nodded meekly.

Angela got to her office, checked her and Bren's voice mail, and answered Cam's polite inquiry as she came by Angela's office for news.

"Yes, she should be alright, but she's pretty uncomfortable," the artist said, piling some things in her bag along with her laptop. "I'm going to stay with Bren for the rest of the day. I'll let you know about tomorrow."

Cam agreed, and Angela finished collecting her things, then went out to her car. She made her way to her next errand, parking her car outside and taking the elevator to her floor after calling up to get confirmation of her identity and a visitor's pass. Nine-thirty. Plenty of time for what she needed to do.

The agent looked up when she came into his office, looking utterly miserable. Good. He should be. He got up, came around his desk with an almost pleading look on his face, practically desperate. She was sure Bren had it almost all wrong, that she'd just twisted what happened because she was so mixed up about how she felt about Booth, and the look on his face confirmed it.

And then, she did something she never thought she'd do. She drew back her right arm as she'd seen Bren do, and with every bit of anger those bruises on her friend's shoulder caused her, every bit of fury as Brennan just slept and cried and slept some more the rest of the weekend, she landed a hard punch on Booth's jaw. She didn't knock him down like Bren had, but he staggered a bit.

Then, she asked the question that had been burning in her all weekend.

"What the fuck did you do?"


	7. Chapter 7

He was surprised, though he shouldn't be, when his phone rang-- the security desk. "An Angela Montenegro here, I.D. from the Jeffersonian Institute?"

His stomach sank. "Yes. Send her up. Thank you."

It took her three and a half minutes from the time he hung up. The elevators were fast today. She looked furious, and worried, and more wound up than he'd ever seen her before as she headed toward his office, so he got up to meet her and beg her, he was absolutely not above begging at this point, for her to tell him Bones was okay.

Before he could register it, she'd hauled back and punched him. He staggered back into his desk, managing still to stay upright. He blinked at her as she said, her voice shaking with fury, "What the fuck did you do?"

He rubbed his jaw, amazed and yet not at the punch she'd packed. Bones was bad off if Angela of all people would wallop him like that. He collapsed in on himself, realizing all over again what he'd pissed all over, shredded, totally spoiled in one moment of weakness, born only of his own failure to tell her what he actually felt. His feet feeling like lead, he got up and closed the door to his office and the blinds on his windows, though the bullpen was essentially empty what with the ropes course training he'd sent his people off to today and tomorrow. He came back and took the other chair on the same side of his desk as the one Angela was standing behind.

He sat, every bone in his body aching from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of Bones, and ran his hands over his face. She pulled the chair back opposite him and sat looking at him, waiting for him to explain.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asked, already despondent over the judgment she'd pass on him once he was done.

She thought, then said caustically, "Well, she already told me about your usual habit on these cases of going home and drinking enough to need her to put you to bed, or to pet and cuddle her in a way that someone who's only '_just partners' _with someone ought never to. So I think I've got the background just fine. You just start with Saturday night."

He nodded, then stared at his hands for a moment. The bruises on his right hand were even bigger, the split on his knuckles bandaged over. He didn't remember doing that part, but he must have. God knew he didn't deserve anyone taking care of him.

"I was going on about how unfair it all was, what an asshole our vic was, how he didn't deserve anyone mourning for him, much less what the system would call justice, and she was putting up with my ranting and raving as calmly as always. I... just... I don't know how she stays so calm, why she can when I know it hurts her as much, why she can keep control of herself when I'm just so..." he paused. He didn't have time for pride. He had no way to know, no right to know, what Bones had told Angela. He just needed to do as she asked him.

"When I'm just so ... weak." He inhaled, not looking at the artist. He couldn't, not if he was going to tell the whole story.

"I... just, I don't know. She puts up with so much shit from me, never calls me on all my stupid, possessive bullshit, doesn't punch me for being so goddamned needy that she lets me hold her when she'd kick anyone else in the nuts for being presumptuous, when she has no goddamned clue how I feel, how much I need her. It was ... it was too much, that she could be so good, so calm, so kind, and yet not ... not give me the one thing I really needed because she doesn't know and I'm too... chickenshit, cowardly, something, to tell her."

He rubbed his face again, hoping she was ignoring the fact that his eyes were watering and his throat was thick with unshed tears. There... he'd admitted he needed her, had feelings for her. Angela remained silent-- when he looked at her, she had that same waiting look on her face.

"I ... I pushed every button she had. Told her she should have thrown the case when I knew damned well it was too late by the time I finished the relevant interviews. Accused her of not caring that those kids would be without a mom, and that she didn't care enough not to inflict on them what she'd been through."

Now he was crying outright as he replayed the conversation in his head, tried to summarize it for Angela.

"She... she called me on it, told me it was my case to pull, and of course she was right, but... I was just so mad at that point. I don't know. None of it was true. I didn't mean any of it. But I couldn't stop saying it. I told ... I told her ... I told her she probably would have arrested her own mother... and she didn't say anything, Angela, she just looked like I slapped her and got up to leave."

He sucked in a ragged breath, wiping his sleeve over his eyes and hoping that no one came in to interrupt him right then-- not because he cared for his dignity, he had none at this point, but just because he had to keep going or he'd never finish the story.

"I ... I ... I just needed some kind of reaction from her, whatever it was, but she was just giving me that _look _like you've just strangled a puppy in front of her. She wouldn't yell at me, punch me, put me in my place... she just let me push her around, push her into the door and hold her there so she couldn't leave until I could get some reaction from her. I ... she got ... she started to ... and then I called her a robot and told her I was sick of it ... and it was like she just crumpled. Said she'd leave so she'd stop inflicting herself on me, just ... believed what I told her like it was the God's honest truth ... was just going to let me leave it at that, that she'd just believe I didn't want her around anymore..."

He stopped then, the lump in his throat and the burning hole in his chest making it impossible for long moments to breath, much less talk. He managed not to sob, but he just couldn't stop crying-- couldn't stop seeing that look of shock and shame and despair _he'd_ put on her face.

"I ... I couldn't believe it ... asked her what the hell was wrong with her that she'd just put up with that from me, and she wouldn't answer me-- just looked like I'd kicked her or stabbed her or something-- I kept asking her to answer me, punched the wall I was so angry and ... and ... scared, and she just... passed out on me."

The sobs he'd been trying to stave off broke out then, sounding more like choking, animal moans. He had no idea how long it took him to stop, though Angela at least had pushed some tissues at him while he was struggling to control himself. He stopped, blew his nose, looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but Bones' real best friend, and finished.

"She... she was out for five minutes maybe more, and ... and I couldn't do anything ... it was just like ... all I could do was keep asking her to wake up, and she wasn't, and I didn't know how I would... what I would ... I couldn't even let go of her to go get the phone... but then she woke up."

He sat silently, replaying the scene in his mind.

"She flinched-- flinched, at _me_-- when she opened her eyes, told me to put her down. I ... I wasn't sure if I could ... but I did, and she just sat there. She ... I ... _I hurt her_," he said, unable to stop the last three words from coming out as a moan. "I _hurt_ her. _Me_. And she just got up, looked at me, got her things and left. I couldn't even get up off the floor to help her or get out of her way. She had to walk out the back door because I was too fucking cowardly, too weak to help her when I was the one who hurt her."

That was the last of his control. Silent sobs took him over, wracking the body he thought he could use to shield her, protect her, but that he'd now _hurt_ her with. He was bent over, elbows braced on his knees, snot and tears leaking onto the floor as each painful jerking breath gasped around the lump in his throat and the hole in his chest.

Finally, though, he heard a soft "Oh, sweetie," and felt Angela's tentative hand rub his back. She stood close to him, and kept rubbing his back as the sobs jerked through him, harder and more painful than the time he'd been tortured with a stun gun. She stood closer then, pulling her head to his stomach, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding on to her to stop himself from drowning. At some point he ran out of tears, and just sat there long moments, lungs seeking air though he just wished he could stop breathing, stop remembering, stop hurting. Angela's hand was still circling his back, and he couldn't look up at her, not yet. From above him, he heard her start to speak.

"You pinched her median nerve somehow, that's why she passed out. It runs from the base of the skull all the way to the hand. The doctor said it can be excruciating when it first happens. She passed out again at the hospital when they got her up on the gurney-- she told them she fell on her outstretched arm, but by the time I got there they'd gotten her into a johnny and it was clear to them and me that she hadn't fallen, not by a long shot. Your very long fingers leave very long bruises, Booth, and Bren always did bruise easily."

He choked at the thought of it.

"Shh," she said, stroking his hair. "Shh. Just listen, now, okay?"

He nodded, silently.

"They'd gotten a nerve block on her and some painkillers in her, and she was totally woozy when I woke her-- but when I told her I knew damned well you had to be involved, because she never would have called me otherwise, and that I was going to either call the cops or kick your ass personally if she didn't tell me, she flipped out, begged me not to do anything. I was worried she was going to pass out again, she was so freaked by the idea of my calling the cops on you, so I promised her that I wouldn't as long as she told me what happened."

She paused, inhaled, rubbed her hand on his back again. Why hadn't she punched him again? He would let her. He would let her carve out the rest of his heart, hell, sharpen the knife in his desk for her if she asked it of him.

"Well, we hung out while she slept and they made sure she was stable. She just passed out from the shock of it, but she was already basically fine when I got there. They did some nerve study thing, and there isn't any permanent damage that they can tell. She slept a bit more while I assured the doctors that it was not a domestic violence situation like the D.C. requires them to keep stats on. I had a hard time convincing them, Booth. It was only when I assured them that I knew who she'd been in a fight with and that I'd be staying with her for the rest of the weekend that they let her go home."

She paused again, clearly thinking what to say next as she let him to hold on to her like he was drowning. What was it with these women squints, putting up with him when he was so dangerous?

"She slept. She's in pain, and that arm's like a dead weight right now with the nerve block. She can't straighten her neck even with a heating pad, and those bruises have gotten only darker. And she woke up from a screaming nightmare at lunchtime yesterday yelling '_because I love you_' at the top of her lungs. Bren told me her version of things, blames herself, thinks that you hate her because she's so weak, that she'd failed you and those children and her mother and basically everyone she's ever encountered because, and this is what she said, Booth. Listen. '_I'm incapable of anything other than either being a robot or killing someone. There's no in between. I have to stay calm, Angela. I'd either have a nervous breakdown or kill someone otherwise.'_"

He sobbed all over again, and her hand on his head pressed him to her.

"She loves you, Booth, and she was resigned to the fact that you hated her. I told her that she was crazy, and that she totally misunderstood whatever happened, and that you were, in fact, completely in love with her and just as mixed up as she was, and that we'd figure it out. I should probably do as Bren would say and kick you in the testicles, but I'm fairly sure that you've already spent the whole weekend beating yourself up, so we're just going to leave how I feel about this whole thing to that little love tap I just gave you."

He half-laughed, half-sobbed. "How can she think that? Why did she believe me?"

Angela poked him lightly. "Because you're usually right about most of what she'd feeling, and she trusts you. She honestly believed you weren't attracted to her, thought of her as only a friend. She thought all your manhandling during these little tantrums of yours was '_the_ _same comfort he'd seek from anyone, he's not attracted to me. He drew a line_.'"

"She's not a killer," he said then, dwelling on that point of Bones' self-assessment. Angela paused, then let go of him. Sitting across from him, she pulled his hands into hers and tugged at him until he was looking at her. Her face was full of as much sympathy as it was of anger. How did he deserve such a friend?

"She is, Booth, just as much as you are." Angela said evenly. "She shot out that woman's throat without a hint of remorse when you took that bullet. She'd already moved, pulled the trigger, and gave her a look of such hatred before the rest of us even really knew what had happened-- then cast the gun aside and begged you to stay with everything in her, until the EMTs pulled her kicking and screaming away. If she'd had your gun at the hospital, I honestly think she'd have shot the doctor who delivered the news that you were dead-- either that, or herself. And if you don't think that's proof that she loves you as much as you love her, because I know without thinking about it that you'd rip out anyone's throat who hurt her, including yourself, then I don't know what love is. It's kind of sick, yeah, but it's love."

He half-laughed and half-sobbed again, and her hands squeezed his. It was too much to process all at once, and yet he was sure it was all true, now that Angela said it. And that explained it—explained it all. Hurt anyone she cared about, and she'd be vicious. Hurt her, and she'd just curl up on herself. He knew it on some level, but … well, he had to do what he could to make it right again.

"She said she's known she was in love with you since she got buried, but that she didn't say anything because you were with Cam and then drew that line-- so she never said anything, assuming that you were someone who went after the things that he wanted, and because you didn't, you didn't want her. You're an ass, you know."

She was smiling at him, but he couldn't help the groan at how stupid he'd been to wait so long, what a coward he'd been-- how long she'd thought he didn't want her, when it was anything but.

"I told her," Angela said with a smile, "that you were a big, giant chicken when it came to her because she was the only person who really held you accountable, and that you were frightened to death of losing her if you messed things up between you, and she didn't believe me. Not one bit."

He drew in a ragged breath, and looked her right in the eye. "You're completely right. Though you're doing a pretty good job right now." He'd put that line there to protect her, and yet he didn't have her and he'd messed things up between them anyway-- almost lost her, despite his stupid belief that if they weren't together, he wouldn't mess up and things would stay fine.

Angela smiled more genuinely then, and she poked him in the chest. "See, you should bring me further in on these cases sometimes, hmm? I'm pretty good at this." Her expression shifted then, and she regarded him more seriously.

"She's a mess, Booth, and I don't think it's a good idea if you see her today anyway, you're pretty messy yourself. Plus, she just needs a lot more sleep. You need to calm down, get another day or two under your belt, figure out exactly what you're going to say and how you're going to apologize and how you're going to make her believe that you love her and want to spend the rest of your life with her, because if you don't, I will carve your nuts off with a rusty nail file. Slowly. When you're ready, you call me and I'll make sure you two actually talk, rather than completely flip out and misinterpret the other. Okay?"

He sniffled, feeling like Parker after he'd convinced him that the monsters under the bed were finally gone. Including the rusty nail file threat. He could trust someone who threatened to kill him for hurting his Bones. And Angela was pretty mad. He wouldn't put it past her. "Okay."

She stood, gathering his snot-filled tissues and walking behind his desk to throw them out before coming back around his desk to stand in front of him. "Rusty nail file, buddy. Now stand up and give me a hot studly hug, so I can get home to Bren, okay?"

He sniffled again as he laughed, standing and doing as the artist ordered. She wrapped her arms firmly around his waist as he held her tentatively, and couldn't help the question that came out unwilled.

"Ange... are you sure it's going to be okay?"

She squeezed him hard, once, then stepped away to look at him. "Sweetie. I may be a mess at my own love life, but no one I've ever gotten to have hot monkey sex has ever gone wrong. So you have two choices. Hot monkey sex, or a rusty nail file."

It was like the sun came out, and he laughed aloud. "You make it so hard to choose."

"Good," she said. "You need anything, you call my cell. I might have to call you back, but don't do anything stupid until you talk to me, okay? Well-- more stupid than you've already done."

Her words were harsh, but at the same time he appreciated more than anything that she was holding him accountable for his actions. And that she was helping Bones.

"Yes, ma'am," he managed, and was staggered when Ange reached up to tug his head down to lay a kiss on his cheek.

"You're an ass. It's a good thing I love you," she said, then turned and walked out of his office.

What did he do to deserve such a friend?


	8. Chapter 8

Brennan woke again after falling asleep under the effect of that morning's painkillers around ten, and made her way out into the main part of her apartment. Despite Angela's assurances that this was all just one big misunderstanding, and that she was wrong to think that Booth didn't care for her, much less as a woman, she couldn't be sure. But she was so bad at the '_heart thing_' as Booth called it, so exhausted by what happened that she was willing for now to push her own thoughts on the matter not down, but off to the side, until Ange came back and helped her sort through them. Like a big messy pile of mail when you come back from a week's vacation.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror as she made her way to the kitchen and stopped. Hair awry, flattened in back, face pale, head still canted to the side even with the nerve block and painkillers and heating pads, eyes still red and puffy despite the fact that she'd managed to stop crying last night, finally, after the third or fourth time Angela tried to assure her that things would work out, that Booth had just repressed his own feelings too long, that it was all a big misunderstanding, and that they would work it out. She looked like hell. The last time she looked this bad was that first night Booth was "dead."

She was a mess. Physically, emotionally, everything. She needed a bath. A long one. And then a long shower. She was glad she'd upgraded her water heater, bought a big one much larger than the one that came standard with all the other condos in the building, just for that purpose. Carefully, she made her way to the bathroom, then unbuttoned the oxford shirt Angela helped her on with last night, so she could dress and undress herself. Doing things with her left hand was inconvenient, but given the alternative, she wouldn't trade the cervical epidural she'd been given. She just hoped it would see her through mid-week or so, when the pain and swelling would abate and she would have a follow-up appointment. She reminded herself to research the matter when she got out of the tub. She avoided looking in the mirror at the bruises Booth left.

Tub filled, hot water now scented with the relaxing lavender bath salts she preferred when her mind was roiling with emotions she wanted to stifle, she gratefully sank to her neck into the tub. Another selling point of the unit, her oversized tub, and really the one way in which she was a true sybarite, contrasted with Angela's penchant for clothes, shoe, and purse shopping. She lay with her eyes closed, flashes of the fight impossible to completely stifle. She tried to distract herself, telling over the bones of the body like a mantra, something she knew automatically that she could use to occupy her mind while she made her body relax. What a difference painkillers made-- how they allowed the mind to clear and see a new perspective on everything.

But try as she might, flashes of the fight kept interrupting her attempt to think of other things, of anything else, really. Sighing, she inhaled the bathsalts again, then tried to train her mind clearly on remembering, to think through the shock and the sense of betrayal-- to analyze not just her own reactions but his actions and how Booth provoked her.

He wasn't that drunk. Hell, he wasn't drunk at all. When he was that angry, those first few shots were like water-- it took as many as half a dozen before they would have any real effect. He'd done it _deliberately_. He hadn't just let random words fall from his mouth. He'd chosen them specifically to hurt her.

She recalled now how angry she'd been at the start of the fight, before the warring senses of betrayal and the trust she'd come to have in him overwhelmed her ability to see clearly, to fight back, to defend herself against his provoking demands. He _did_ treat her like a criminal, when all she'd been doing was trying to help him. And respect that damned line of his, which he'd apparently been lying about this whole time. Angela claimed it was his attempt to deal with his fear of losing her, despite the fact that she was the one with so-called abandonment issues, but Brennan wasn't so sure.

Booth knew how lonely she was-- she'd admitted it privately to him, and by God, he'd even provoked her into admitting it in therapy when neither of them really trusted Sweets-- and then done _nothing_ about it as he dropped her off at the end of the night. Those were hardly the kind acts of a friend, regardless of whether he was in love with her. But they also didn't seem the acts of a coward-- not if he cared as much for her as a friend as he claimed to.

Did she know him at all? She thought she did-- once. She thought he was someone she could trust to tell her the unvarnished truth. Those truths could be uncomfortable, yes, and he used his knowledge of her to drive his points home, but it was always to help her. She'd trusted him to never hurt her intentionally, as well as to do everything he could to protect her from other people hurting her. She still did believe that the late news of his "_death_" lay solely with Sweets-- but what role did his "_fear_" play in his not calling her personally, in his lack of forethought in preventing anyone else from hurting her, even their therapist? And the not hurting her intentionally part-- so much for that.

Even now, she could care less about the physical injury. She'd read the test results-- she would be fine once the initial discomfort and swelling passed. She sighed and rolled her head on her neck, enjoying the freer movement the hot water gave her, the way the release of that tension drained some of the sympathetic pain and discomfort from the rest of her muscles. What she was furious about now that she had the physical and temporal distance to think of it was that he'd deliberately used every single weakness he'd ever rooted out, made her confess, claimed to be concerned about in order to hurt her-- undermine her-- make her think she was worthless-- then did _nothing_ to stop her from leaving when he knew damned well what he'd done.

He was the one who should have begged her to stay, crawled after her pleading for forgiveness. Instead, he'd let her get to a state where she was ready to abase herself if it meant he would just talk to her, soothe her, make her feel better-- he'd just sat there, letting her limp out the door despite the excruciating pain she'd been in. Angela claimed that he'd probably been too shocked by the fact that she'd passed out, been horrified that he was the cause to even stop her from leaving. Brennan found that hard to believe.

In every circumstance they'd ever been in before, Booth's quick-thinking reflexes and instincts always saw them through, kept her from serious harm. He'd _never_ left her to fend for herself. How foolish she'd been to come to rely on that. This time, he'd used his strength and reflexes against her to hurt her-- though it was the intention more than the result that concerned her. As much as she could take care of herself, even against men larger than her, she acknowledged that the element of surprise was critical when she was lighter and shorter than her opponent. She'd always admired Booth's physical strength and control-- but now he'd used it against her, and according to Angela, done it because he'd lost control. Booth didn't lose control-- never in all the time that she'd known him.

Fear explained none of that. Pure male sexual frustration, channeled into inexplicable-- perhaps even malicious-- physical aggression? Perhaps. She hoped not. It would make Booth just one man among many others, when she'd always believed that while he was no saint, he had evolved beyond most males' behavior. It hurt to think about him like that.

She still loved him, yes. Having acknowledged it, she could hardly turn it off like a tap running water. But could she trust him? She was no longer sure.

Her reverie was broken by a soft tap on the door.

"Bren, sweetie, you in there?" came her real best friend's voice.

"Yes-- come in," she replied, still mulling things over.

The artist came in and perched on the toilet, regarding her seriously and curiously all at once. After a moment, she broke her silence. "You look better," she said, and smiled.

"I feel better," Brennan replied. "Think better, too." Focusing, she realized all her doubts and thoughts and concerns could be summarized in just one simple question-- eyes narrowed, nostrils slightly flared, she looked up at her friend and asked it, fury tinging her voice.

"Angela, what the _fuck_ was he thinking?"

The response puzzled her.

"Okay... rusty nail file it is."


	9. Chapter 9

Booth actually managed to get some work done the rest of the day-- not much, but some. He was glad of the bathroom in his office so he could wash his face in privacy, splash on some cold water so he didn't look like he'd been crying harder than he'd ever cried in his life. This... this abject terror was why he hadn't said anything before, this was what he'd been afraid of if he ever did something to lost her. And yet... it didn't matter. No matter how badly he felt, he needed to make her feel better, even if she couldn't forgive him. He'd gotten over the gambling, despite the fact that he'd been terrified of what he would do, how he would fill his time when the gambling was gone but the old ghosts were still there. Parker'd been too important not to push through it. He could push through it again. Bones was too important, too.

Thank God it was quiet, and that no one came in to see him until later that day, after all the red-rimmed eyes and runny nose stuff had passed. He'd been picking at the paper on his desk, trying to find mindless things to work on, trying not to be impatient about hearing from Angela about how Bones was doing, trying not to think too much about what a miserable bastard he was, and trying, trying, trying to think about anything except the fact that he needed another drink. He'd made it to thirty-six years old without ever needing one, then lost his temper one time with his partner and was ready to go over the edge. At five, he gave up this new ghost, checked out some information about other meetings online, and packed up his things.

He'd just turned off his computer when his phone rang, the ID reading "Hot Artist Babe." When did she re-program his phone? With a snort, he answered.

"Hot artist babe, hunh? How's she doing?"

Angela's voice was hesitant. "Well... she'd physically better, but..."

His still-bleeding heart thumped hard in his chest. "What? Is she okay? She didn't... she didn't try anything..."

Angela laughed, a hysterical tinge to it. "Hardly. No... remember how I said you had the choice of a rusty nail file?"

"How could I forget? It's a hell of a threat."

"Yeah, well, I practically had to tie her down to keep her from going over to your office and kicking the shit out of you. She's furious, Booth. She doesn't understand why you snapped like that, can't believe that you'd lose so much control since she said _'Booth's never lost control, ever_,' and is sure now that you're just like any other jealous ape of a guy and you've been reveling in her loneliness up to this point because '_if_ _he was a friend, no matter what he felt, he would have said something_.'"

He stifled a wave of nausea. It wasn't true, he hadn't reveled in her loneliness, in fact hadn't thought she might be lonely that way at all because he'd been so mixed up himself, but he could understand why she thought it.

"You should have let her come over," he said, ready to cry all over again. "I would have let her kick the shit out of me."

"Let my ass," Angela snorted. "She'd have done it whether you let her or not. But I convinced her to leave it alone. I ... had to tell her I'd been over to see you and that you were more than a little upset, and that seemed to mollify her a little, until she wanted to know why you weren't already over there, begging forgiveness if you were really upset. So I told her what I'd told you, that you both should cool down a bit. I left the hot monkey sex bit out with her though. I think she would have punched me."

He sniffled through the snort that escaped him. Leave it to Angela to be funny and blunt and reassuring and sexually inappropriate all in one conversation.

"So... what do you want me to do?"

"Get your head on straight. Talk to someone about why you lost it like that. I mean... I think I know why, she's just stifling how crazy she acted when she thought you were dead, so completely unlike herself, but I think you should talk to someone besides me about it too."

"What do you mean, crazy?" He heard her advice, but the thought that Bones was in more pain somehow because of him made him nauseous all over again.

"Honey... look, I'll come by at lunchtime tomorrow and explain, okay? Just... I've got to get back to Bren, I'm out getting supper and it's ready and she's going to wonder where I am. Promise me you'll find someone to talk to?"

He sighed, thinking. He had to, for Bones. "I will."

"Okay, sweetie. And again... don't do anything stupid without calling me, please. I'll pick up the phone even if I'm at her place. Okay?"

"Thanks. I will." He meant it. He had too much repair work to do to mess things up again.

"Alright. Bye, hon. See you at lunchtime tomorrow."

He hung up and stared at his phone for a moment. He gathered his things and his courage, stuffed down his pride, and did as Angela suggested-- he went to find someone to talk to.

A half hour later, Booth sat back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face, relieved that at least he'd managed to get through the telling this time without crying or choking or sobbing. Panting and sweating like a racehorse after coming in dead last and practically collapsing over the line, yes. Crying, at least, no. When he finished getting control of his breathing, he sat up and looked back at his listener. He wasn't surprised by the initial response.

"Oh, shit." said Dr. Sweets. "What the hell were you thinking?"


	10. Chapter 10

Doctor Lance Sweets sat shocked for a moment as he watched a patient he never thought he'd get a handle on, who he thought defined "_calm, cool, and collected_" start to completely fall apart on him. Hell, he'd already completely fallen apart, and no wonder. Well, first things first.

"Ms. Montenegro is staying with her, correct?"

The agent nodded, not quite looking him in the eye. "Yeah. She said that she was planning on staying there at least through the end of the week."

"And it's not a permanent injury?"

"That's what Ange said, but she's got a doctor's appointment on Wednesday."

"Dude. I know you know this already, but I need you to look at it from an another angle. The fact that she didn't call the cops on you and still hasn't? She's not doing that to be polite. She's doing it because no matter what else she's thinking right now, she hasn't quite given up on you."

Booth looked at him bleakly, and in any other circumstance but with these particular patients, Sweets would be rubbing his hands gleefully at having such a thorny mess to help untangle. But these two... well, it wasn't appropriate for a therapist to become attached to his patients, but he had, especially after neither one of him killed him or reported him to his boss for that completely misguided experiment at the time of Booth's death. He really wanted to help them, it hurt to think how messed up Booth was right now, and he really wanted them to work through their issues, especially if it meant that they ended up as a couple.

It wasn't generally approved of, but if they could work together as well as a couple as they had before this complete clusterfuck, he was going to push his recommendation up the line as far as he had to in order to make sure they stayed together. He was as much of a romantic as Ms. Montenegro was-- he just never quite thought Agent Booth would be the one prompting a crisis between them. And if Booth was this badly off, Sweets was pretty sure there was no way he could deal with a distraught Dr. Brennan. God knew, he'd fucked it up big time with the news of Booth's death. But he could at least ask Booth questions.

"You think so?" asked the agent, for the first time seeming completely unsure.

Sweets thought a moment. "She didn't give up on her Dad, or her brother, and no matter how bad you fucked this up, even she would admit that what they did was way worse."

Booth shook his head. "No-- see, it's actually _more_ reason for her not to forgive me. What I did is worse, because I was the one who encouraged her to make up with them and kept poking and prodding at her until she did. She did that because I told her she should, and she believed me and trusted me to know it was good for her. But see... she's never going to let them all the way back in, because they don't know who she is now, can't ever possibly know her. She'll do family things with them, sure, even enjoy their company and go out of her way to make an effort with them, but she's never going to really trust them. I'm the only one who ever made it as far in as I did. She won't ever trust me not to hurt her again, because see, Sweets? Her family hurt her because they didn't know what they were doing, didn't know how it would affect her. Me? I hurt her and _damned well knew that it would_ while I was doing it."

Sweets tipped his head, thinking. This would be tricky. "What about Ms. Montenegro? They've been friends longer than you and Dr. Brennan have been working together."

Booth sighed. "She... she's there for Bones if Bones calls her, but... she doesn't push her to take care of herself, or check in on her after a hard case, or, well... she gets distracted. She's there in a second if you call her attention to something, but you have to ask her for help. She's wonderful, perfect, amazing when you do, but..."

Sweets nodded, understanding. "Dr. Brennan wallows, and Ms. Montenegro lets her. You don't."

Booth shook his head. Well, he'd already admitted he loved Bones and everything else that had happened, he might as well admit everything else. "No. Did you know Bones and I probably have two out of three meals together at least four days a week, even if it's just coffee and muffins on the way to a scene?"

Sweets shook his head. His patients studiously avoided ever disclosing how much time they spent together when he didn't observe them during a case, though he'd often wondered and even asked them directly, only to be rebuffed or "interrupted" by a phone call. Untangling them was like the Gordian Knot-- or at least until Booth sliced through them.

"Yeah. She lets me barge in on her at midnight with takeout when I get done with a stakeout or a meeting, though it's not like she's in bed because she sleeps even less than I do, and let me tell you something, kid, that's not a lot."

"What do you two talk about?"

Booth thought. "Work. Parker. Her nieces. Whatever Jack's blew up that week. Just ragging on each other, whatever. She makes fun of my sports stuff, I make fun of the fact that every surface in her apartment is covered with art or squint journals."

"How much of this takes place at your apartment?"

Booth shot the therapist an assessing look. "Not much."

"Why do you think that is? You said you barge in on her at her place. Why doesn't she do the same?"

Booth thought again, then flushed. "Uh... the only time she did I had a girl at my place and was kind of nasty to her about it in the car afterward."

Sweets looked at Booth for a bit longer, then spoke. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, either. Just... go with me for a moment, okay? You remember when we went to go see her while she was out with that Coldplay guy?"

"Yeah," he said, looking chagrined.

"And then she said during therapy that she didn't bother you about your private life? Even made some comment about how she assumed you were sexually active and that it was none of her business?"

Booth flushed, looking embarrassed as he undoubtedly remembered the rest of the conversation. "Yeah, I remember."

The therapist finally felt on the verge of a breakthrough. "Has she ever told you to barge out of her private life?"

"No."

"But you've essentially told her to, even if it was only that once."

"Yeah."

"And has she?"

"Only once-- she yelled at my ex about her jerking Parker around on me."

Sweets steepled his hands and sat back. "Tell me five truthful, private things you've ever told Dr. Brennan that most other people didn't already know. And tell me in as much detail as you told her."

In the end, and after some silent internal battles about whether he could say the aloud to anyone else but his partner, Booth could only come up with three, and the details were sparse. The Serbian general. That his father drank. And that Booth once gambled. Sweets thought a long moment, then looked back at Booth. "That wouldn't even fill up a page if you wrote all the details you told her down. If that's all you've ever told her about yourself, it's a wonder she let you in at all."

The agent laid his head back against the back of his chair again, exhaling as he put his hands over his face. "I know."

"Don't you trust her?"

That got Sweets the reaction he'd hoped for. Booth sat bolt upright, shooting him a deadly glare. "Of course I trust her! Bones is the most loyal, best friend anyone could have, she can handle anything you throw at her if..."

He trailed off, and Sweets nodded. "Right. She can handle anything you throw at her, but you have to give her something to go on. _You told me that_. When you pulled the rug out from under her, she had nothing to go on, because what she thought was her foundation, your friendship, gave way and she doesn't know enough about who you are, underneath, to figure out why you reacted the way that you did."

Booth shook his head miserably. "She'll think I'm weak..." he muttered, looking anywhere but at the whiz kid who was doing a pretty damned good job picking him apart.

Sweets said very seriously "I highly doubt that. Do you think she's weak because of all her baggage?"

"No," Booth said despairingly. "She's one of the strongest people I know."

"And has she ever indicated that she thinks you're weak after the little you've told her?"

"No," Booth replied, wonderingly.

"And... do you think she might even be stronger in some ways because you've picked at her and made her work through some of her problems?"

"I don't know," he said, feeling more lost than when he'd walked in here.

"Dude," Sweets said, chiding. "Come on. You can do better than that. Of course she is. I mean, she's letting her dad work at the lab, isn't she? From everything I can tell, she'd normally have either kicked his ass to the curb or hopped on a plane to Peru to avoid dealing with _that_ situation." He refrained from mentioning the other situation he could think of. If Dr. Brennan really wasn't stronger as a result of her partnership with Booth, she would have severed it after she twigged to the fact that Booth could have called her personally, regardless of Sweets' own failures. But she'd forgiven her partner. Sweets thought in the end that she would do so again. He hoped.

Booth just shook his head, looking despondent. "Right. And who knows how she'll react to him now that the one person she thought she could trust can't be trusted to be there for her if her dad fails her again."

Sweets sat for a bit, replaying the torrent of words his patient poured out right after he'd walked in, shut the door, and said "_I need to talk to you, I've fucked everything up with my Bones_." As if the words '_my_ _Bones_' weren't a telltale, Sweets reflected. He was surprised that Booth came to him at all, but then again, the Agent was hard to read even now. Perhaps he thought that at least Sweets, with some passing acquaintance with Brennan, was better than his usual parish confessor. After this was over, maybe he'd ask him.

"Tell me again what you did when you finally got up off the floor?"

Booth flinched at the reminder of his paralyzing cowardice, but answered. "Shut the door, poured all the booze into the sink, and then... not sleeping well, and checking she was home on Sunday morning ... and going to a meeting. I don't really know what else."

"Why'd you go to a meeting? Did you need to play cards?"

Booth shook his head, again not meeting his eyes. "No. I needed a drink."

"Why'd you start gambling?" This was uncharted territory, Sweets knew, he'd never come out and asked Agent Booth about anything that happened that far back. His error. Calm, cool, and collected was all just a front.

"Because I needed to ... I needed to ... I needed to stop seeing their faces after I had to...." Shit, Sweets thought to himself. Boy, he'd fucked up big time not to get Booth's Army medical file.

"So... basically the gambling stopped the blackouts from before?" He was taking his own gamble here, but given Booth's claimed lack of memory about most of the weekend...

Booth's gaze finally sharpened, and confirmed he was right. "Yeah."

"And when did you stop gambling?"

"When Parker was born," Booth said immediately, as if it was the only response in the world.

Sweets swooped in for the kill. "So? So what? Lots of people don't stop whatever addictive or abusive behaviors they engage in just because they have children or people they care about to take care of. Let me ask you something... did the itch to play cards stop right after Parker was born?"

Booth shook his head. "No... that kind of stuff doesn't just go away, you have to learn to live with it and push past it unless you replace one thing with ..." He stopped.

"With another," Sweets finished, hoping he was right. Addictive behaviors, surprisingly, were something most of his patients didn't have many of. "So-- when was the last time you really, constantly, every single day felt like you needed to squash the urge?"

Booth replied unthinkingly, instinctively. "There was this gang guy who put a hit out on Bones maybe the fourth case we worked? He grabbed her and she kicked the shit out of him right in front of the bullpen-- she's such a badass. I went after him after the Gang Task Force told me about it and... oh, man, she scared the shit out of me. But… yeah. That next morning…"

Sweets sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Dr. Hodgins. Over time, as we progress emotionally, we replace more antisocial coping mechanisms with more acceptable ones. You replaced the ... requirements of your sniper duties … with gambling, and then reduced the need further with wanting to be there for your son, and then... replaced the habit completely by protecting Dr. Brennan. It doesn't mean you don't get the old urges every once in a while ... but the new behavior makes it possible to fight past the old one almost all of the time, or even not have it most of the time. So now you're addicted to her, but you convinced yourself you can't have her or that she won't want you if she finds out how fucked up you are, so you tried to deal with it, and didn't do a very good job."

Booth threw his hands up in utter despair. "Didn't do a very good job! Jesus Christ! I acted just like my father!"

Sweets lunged forward and poked the Agent to get his attention, surprising himself as he pushed Booth back into the chair. "No, you didn't. Did you hit her? No-- you stopped yourself, and admit it, you never were going to, never would. Did you accidentally hurt her because you were messed up and hurting and she was confused and hurting? Yes. Are you so completely undone by the fact that this happened that you've already done more to begin making amends for just one fight than your father ever did in his lifetime despite whatever he did to you guys? You bet your ass. Sorry, wrong phrase, but you know what I meant."

Booth just stared at him, and Sweets filled the pause. "You are _not at all_ like your father. You are your own man. You're pretty messed up, yeah, but who isn't? Dude, I freak out during thunderstorms and I've never been through any of the shit you two have. We're all fucked up about something."

Sweets took the continued silence to his advantage, struggling to remember the different meetings' variations on the Twelve Steps. "What's the main thing you're supposed to do at your meetings?"

"Get honest." It was like someone hit Booth in the back of the head with a board. Get honest. That meant actually talking, and sharing, and admitting to things. Sweets was right. When had Bones ever rejected him because he acknowledged something that might make him seem weak? Never. Not telling her anything was as much of a lie as actually, actively lying to her.

"And then?"

"Make amends." Booth shook his head. It wasn't that simple, and yet at the same time it was. He looked up at the therapist and the clock over his shoulder. What a difference an hour made.

Sweets watched with satisfaction as Booth came to the rest of the conclusions for himself. "So..."

"Getting honest _is_ making amends, at least to Bones... she just needs information to..."

"Right. She forgave you when you explained why you didn't tell her why you were dead, right?"

"Yeah." He glared at Sweets for a moment, but it was true, and he'd been worried for a while that she wouldn't.

Booth closed his eyes for a few moments more as he thought things through all over again. With a brief, bitter smile, he looked at the therapist and said "Not bad, kid. If Bones doesn't kick my ass into next week, I still owe you that beer with a rye chaser."

Sweets felt a slow smile bloom over his face. "That still sounds like it hurts, but I'll take you up on it. Now... mind you-- you two are co-dependent as hell, so once you get past this first part you're still going to have a lot to work on, but..."

Booth nodded. "But I'll have something to work on instead of nothing..."

Sweets sat forward again. "Okay. So... tell me. What are you going to do, first?"


	11. Chapter 11

Angela stood quietly out of the line of sight from Booth's desk for a moment. He looked better-- which was good, because he was going to be miserable all over again once she was done with him.

"Studly," she said, rapping on his doorway. He looked up, gave her a half-smile, and grabbed his coat of the back of his chair. His usual chivalrous self, he ushered her out of his office and out in the hall with one hand at her elbow. Not as intimate as his hand right on Bren's back, but the man had these hands... mmm. She had no interest in him the way Bren did, but she _was_ an artist. She appreciated the male physical form. And did he ever have a physical form.

"You know, Angela, that I can never return the favor with an inappropriate nickname or I would get reported for sexual harassment so fast..."

She just snickered. "Don't think I couldn't think up some names you could call me, baby."

"Baby?" he said, arching an eyebrow.

"Sorry. Hodgie's got a permanent part in my speech patterns."

They reached the elevator and Booth stabbed the button impatiently. "Where am I taking you to lunch?" he asked, regarding the artist.

"Someplace quiet with a corner?" she asked. "Not the diner." She was relieved when he nodded agreement. The last thing either one of them needed, much less Bren, was some rumor that the two of them were bumping uglies, though she had a feeling Booth's would hardly be ugly. She had good gut instincts that way.

When the elevator came, Sweets was already inside.

"Hey," he said, greeting them both, a serious look on his face. Angela gave him another look as he and Booth nodded at each other, and noticed that Booth didn't make an immediate crack about Sweets being twelve.

"Okay," she said, looking at them both. Then, she pointed to Sweets. "You're coming to lunch with us, too, since clearly the two of you have had a little mano a mano since I last talked to Special Agent Completely Dejected here."

Booth flushed, Sweets looked surprised, and both said without argument, "Yes, Angela."

"Doctor Montenegro is in," she said with a self-satisfied smile.

* * *

They ended up going to a quiet cop bar not far from the Hoover with what Booth called "respectable burgers, though the fries are pretty inadequate." The proprietor, a little old Irish man who could easily pass for a leprechaun, twinkled at Angela before pointing them over to a booth in the corner, responding to the agent's request for "something quiet and out of the way, Billy?"

He brought them their sodas, some napkins and pretzels, and came back to take all their orders. That accomplished, Angela looked at the two of them.

"Okay. I don't need to know what the two of you talked about. And what I have to say right here," she said, pointing to the encompassing high walls of the booth, "if it ever leaves here? I will not only carve both your nuts off with a rusty nail file, slowly, I will also feed them to you when I'm done."

Both men swallowed and nodded agreement.

She leaned in, until both men did the same. When they were in far enough, she grabbed Sweets' tie and yanked him halfway over the table.

"You," she hissed furiously, her calm smile replaced by protective venom almost immediately, "are a not only a bigger idiot than my favorite FBI lunkhead here, you're a sorry excuse for a therapist. At least when it comes to Bren. The only reason I haven't pulled your balls out through your nose is because you have been slightly helpful to Jack."

She let go then, and pushed Sweets back down into his seat. Booth managed to keep his face straight, despite his enjoyment at seeing Angela dish it out to Sweets, too. Sweets looked shocked, but slowly straightened his tie.

"Okay," he said, "I can concede that."

Booth gave the kid a grudging look of respect. Good advice and humility twice in two days.

"I told Booth yesterday that Bren's understandably furious, now that she's got her head on straighter, and that Booth needed to figure out how the hell he was going to explain why he acted so crazy. I'm correct that you two have had that conversation, since Booth hasn't given you a wedgie yet today, and hasn't killed you as a result of that little concession of yours?"

Both men flushed as they nodded, looking as though they'd both gotten caught looking up little girl's skirts. There was a pause as the bartender delivered their food, then as they each took a few bites.

"Okay. Sit there and listen, boys, and don't interrupt me." Both nodded, and Angela put on her best version of Bren's "_Sit down, shut up, and do what I tell you_," stare. She'd known Bren a while-- she might almost have it. That was proven when both men stilled a bit more.

"First. Booth, and Sweets, you wouldn't know this, this was way before you came along, Booth, you have no idea how apeshit she went when those hillbilly gangsters got you. She practically throttled Hodgie and Zach until we could figure out where you were. She lied to the Bureau, teamed up with her father, and from what Max told me, beat the holy hell out of that hot chick bounty hunter Booth let run off because she was hot. She might have been classic Bren once you got back, Booth, just her usual badass logical girl, but let me tell you something, she was furious, as driven and ready to kill someone as you were with the Gravedigger, Booth."

Both men were listening intently, and Booth, seemingly recalling his own frantic, furious drive, paled a bit at the parallel.

"I went by her place after she dropped Booth off from the hospital-- what, did you kids go to the diner or something?"

Booth nodded, waiting.

"Well, anyway. I get to her place and I'm waiting for her because she's not picking up her cell, so I sack out on her couch for a nap because we were all pretty damned tired by the time it was over. She comes in-- doesn't even turn the lights on, just bolts for the sink and starts heaving her guts out, sobbing hysterically. I didn't know what the hell to do, she clearly thought she was alone, and I knew if I said anything she'd shut it all down, when she clearly needed to let some of it out, because she was all crazy-eyed like Booth got when she and Hodgie were missing. So I basically hid. For an hour. While she kept puking her guts out and crying like, well... let's just say it was more than relief. And then she turns on the lights, cleans the sink, blows her nose, drinks a glass of water, and trots off to bed like she'd like even herself to believe she would do. How she didn't notice me... well, anyway. She goes off to bed, and I creep out of there, hoping to god she won't hear me. I still feel slimy, thinking about it, but I still think it was better for her, right then, for her to let it all out."

Sweets listened, wide-eyed, and Angela reached over to dope-slap him. "Didn't think she had it in her, did you? Maybe you should have done a little more research before you decided not to tell her Special Agent Bullet Absorber over there was alive, hunh?"

Booth had put his sandwich down by this point, his look changing from pale to bright green. Angela looked at him sympathetically, then said "Sweetie, if you're going to hurl, pull that trash bucket over, will you?" Booth, nodding, did so. Sweets, regarding his patient's worsening visage, seemed to get a little pale and sweaty himself.

Angela looked at them both again, then jabbed her finger at Sweets. "You," she said, "you were off having whatever _'is Booth dead or isn't he_' conversation you were having with those Bureau bastards with their heads up their butts, and we were all sitting around, waiting to hear. Bren had completely wound down after shooting that woman and socking those EMTs and was sitting there like a zombie, covered in _your_ blood," she said, jabbing her finger at Booth, who flinched and sat back.

"So I dragged her off to the bathroom to wash up-- we all thought we'd hear you were okay and Bren could go up to see you. We're standing there in the bathroom and I'm trying to get her to wash, and it's like getting a sick little kid dressed, you know? Totally floppy and out of it. She says exactly four words to me, "_I never told him_," the whole time, and by the time we got out the doctor was just coming down and giving us the greatly exaggerated rumor of your death."

Booth had turned back from green to utterly pale, and Sweets was shaking his head. Hopefully at his foolishness.

Angela shook her head at her own foolishness then. "Well, we're all weeping and tearing our hair and gnashing our teeth and I'm all over Hodgie and I swear it was only two or three seconds that I turned my back on her, but she's _gone_ as soon as I turn around."

Booth's mouth tightened in a line, but he said nothing, waiting for the artist to finish. Sweets seemed to be remembering his own version of things, and was doing his own serious recalculations.

"I finally get over to her place, and I can hear her crying through her door, she's crying so loud, but she had the chain lock on and I couldn't get in, and she wouldn't come to the door when I asked her to. I'm not even sure if she heard me, since she was heaving and crying all over again."

"What did you do?" asked Sweets, his face showing alarm and concern. He seemed afraid to look over at Booth, as he should be, the artist reflected. She was fairly sure that it was only Booth's focus on hearing the rest of the account that kept him from killing the boy wonder therapist.

Angela looked at him for long moments. "I closed the door and sat on the other side, listening. I figured as long as she was crying and puking she wouldn't do anything stupid, but I was worried a bit when it got quiet, until I realized she was taking a shower. I figured at that point she was better, and decided I'd wait her out. She opened the door on me eventually, maybe around six in the morning, looked at me with the same dead-eyed stare she had when she found her Mom, Booth, do you remember that?" she asked, and Booth nodded, looking even paler, "and says right before she heads off to work, '_Ange, you should go home to Hodgins, you're not alone, and at least he loves you back. It doesn't make sense for me to be feeling this way_.'"

Booth lost his fight for control then, and heaved into the bucket. Sweets looked like he might join him. Angela watched them both, now satisfied that each man had some comprehension of what they'd done to her friend. She didn't resent Booth for the role he'd not so much usurped but supplanted her in-- she admitted that she was a flake a lot of the time, and Booth was both more effective and persistent than Ange's best efforts-- but she did resent these _boys_' assumption that there was no more to Bren than met the eye when it came to her friend and Booth's death.

"Right," she said, taking in both their green faces. "You," she said, pointing her finger at Booth-- "you should have called. That's all, period, end of discussion."

"You," she said, pointing at Sweets, "you should know better, Mr. I-have-how-many doctorates, than to believe that Bren's outer demeanor would mirror her inner one, since isn't that why they pushed them into therapy in the first place? So... you either knew better but ignored it because you wanted to see what would happen, or you're an idiot for thinking she could compartmentalize something like that, and yet inexplicably, you didn't release them from therapy."

Both men sat there, practically panting under the force of Angela's focus. She picked up a fry and munched thoughtfully, then half-smiled at them both.

"Which is all a long way of saying that she's had deep feelings for Booth for a while, never thought they were reciprocated, and that neither one of you did anything to undermine that conviction once things were settled down, Booth because he's an addicted chickenshit with his head up his ass, and you, Doctor Twelve-Year-Old, because you clearly don't have any idea what it means to be in love with someone when you don't think the feelings are mutual, because he's already told you there's a stupid, ridiculous line."

She resisted the urge to dope-slap Booth for good measure. He still looked like he might hurl again.

Sweets shook his head, looking dismayed. "I ... never thought that she... "

Angela didn't restrain the urge to dope-slap Sweets again. "You're never going to make an assumption about Bren again in your life, right?"

Sweets shook his head, '_no_,' speechlessly.

"And you," she said, softening her voice only slightly as she looked at her confused best friend's equally confused partner, "are never going to be Special Agent Idiot Moron ever again, are you?"

"You already know that, Ange..." he said seriously.

"Oh, sweetie, I know," she said, then grinned at both of them. "But it's not often I get to put two cute guys' nuts in a vise at the same time. Indulge me, okay?"

The two men gaped at each other, stunned by the artist's mercurial temperament. Just then, her phone rang. "Sit," she said, pointing at them.

They sat. They stayed. They were good boys.

"Hi, sweetie," Angela said. "No, I'm almost done with my errands." She listened, her face becoming more serious. "No, I can do that. Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia, I got it." She listened again, then said "Alright, lovey, see you soon," and hung up.

Standing, she looked at them both. "She wants me to bring her ice cream and rent The Princess Bride. She _never_ wants to do anything girly." She gathered her purse, gave them a glare, and said just four more words.

"Rusty nail file, fellas." And with that, she was gone, leaving the two men spinning in the wake of Hurricane Angela.

Sweets spoke first. "Fuck, dude, what are we going to do?"

"You can say that again."


	12. Chapter 12

After watching the Princess Bride, sharing the two pints of ice cream between them, and then enjoying the completely non-nutritious dinner of tater-tots, vegetarian chili, fritos and beer ('_Carbo__-loading for angry chicks, Bren_,' as Angela said), Brennan decided not to call the artist immediately on the fact that she'd seen Booth twice in two days. Booth wore a distinctive cologne, and Angela had clearly hugged him or sat in close proximity to him not long prior to returning to Brennan's apartment. Whatever they'd spoken about, Angela was not pressing Brennan-- and she knew Angela considered Booth to be a friend, as well.

Brennan sat on her couch reflecting as her own friend spent some time in the bath, and sipped at some wine Angela brought on the theory that "alcohol's a muscle relaxant, Bren...." Angela was being quite a good friend, despite whatever she thought of herself. She knew well that while Brennan was _really_ in the midst trying to work things through, emotionally, it was best to provide physical company and make herself available for conversation-- it was only when Brennan was not clearly distressed about something that Angela tended to nag.

Whatever conversations took place between Booth and Angela, they had not caused Angela to vary from her initial recommendations on Sunday night-- that Booth and she felt the same and made the same incorrect assumptions about the others' feelings, leading to the current debacle, and that each had their own insecurities that caused them to fail to tell the other that they felt as they did. Brennan still had a hard time fathoming what she could only at this point term Booth's cowardice. She still didn't know if she could trust him-- at least enough to now try to pursue a relationship with him. She needed to resolve it one way or the other-- losing her trust in him "romantically" also meant she wasn't sure she could trust him in the field, as much as the thought of not continuing field work with Booth pained her. Certainly, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find another agent with whom she would work as well on the type of cases she assisted Booth with. But the fact remained-- she couldn't understand why Booth would be so insecure as to prevent him from being straightforward about how he felt. Certainly he never hesitated to tell her that she was being too blunt, or too technical, or missing some point of social niceties. In fact, he quite often hurt her feelings about her pop-culture obtuseness, or her questions about things she honestly was just trying to understand when it was just the two of them and no one around she could possibly offend-- but even then, he was up front with her.

Why was this different? What was he hiding? And what did she really know about him? He was a sniper, an Army Ranger. He wanted to make up for the lives he had taken. He was Catholic. He had a son out of wedlock whom he saw far less than he would prefer-- although she might not have learned about Parker but for Dr. Goodman.

He'd been in Iraq, where his xrays showed that his feet were broken-- but he never told her that either. She found that out on her own, when she looked at his x-rays. He hadn't denied it, though, nor had he denied her posited cause of the posterior rib fractures his x-rays also showed.

He dated blond, buxom women, and her boss, Cam-- although those, too, were things she'd found out by her own discoveries or through other people. She didn't know if he dated, and if so, how often. Since that one time he'd chided her for interrupting he and Tessa, she'd butted out of his business, and when she had asked him why he hadn't told her about he and Cam, he was also offended, and again told her essentially that it was none of her business. Right. Because dating her boss was professional, with no potential impact on Brennan's working environment. Asshole. It didn't matter whether it had in the end. It just mattered that he was... what did Angela call it? '_Thinking with his little head rather than his big one_?'

He did admit he'd been to Serbia, worked as a sniper, and had carried out the assignment he told her about at Devon Marshall's graveside. But he'd never discussed it ever again.

He was a former gambler-- she didn't think he'd told her about that directly, but he had admitted it when they were in Vegas.

She had no idea what he did on the weekends. She didn't know if he socialized with other people from his office, because certainly he never invited her along, even as he would occasionally join she and the rest of the team for a beer in the lounge on a Friday night if there were cases pressing, and before everyone went their own ways.

Perhaps he thought she was so awkward that she would embarrass him at any gathering of his Bureau colleagues. That must be it. Certainly he ushered her in and out of the Hoover with as little contact with others, beyond Sweets or Caroline, as possible. She only had passing acquaintance with Charlie and some of the Evidence team. He never really talked about what other work was going on in his unit. He could hardly think she wouldn't be interested-- if she wasn't, then why would she have insisted on being partners with him? The only reasonable conclusion was that he was embarrassed of her-- while he was glad of her work in the lab, and could control their interactions with Dr. Sweets and with suspects in the interrogation rooms, the lack of predictability in third party interactions between she and other people must have led him to decide that she was too much of a risk, and would expose him to ridicule for her awkward ways.

Whether he found her public company painful, however, there were other things to consider. He never spoke of his Army or gambling experiences, and if he went to meetings or met with Army friends, she didn't know anything about it. He would occasionally speak of his time spent with Parker, admittedly moreso than before since her father began work at the lab. And she knew his father drank, which she had only learned after the prompting of Sweets and Cam and her own conversation with Jared.

Why was he so reticent? Did he honestly think she was such a fly-by-night person that she would think less of him because he'd had his own difficult situations to contend with? Hadn't she done what she could to support him, to accept whatever he told her? She understood military necessity. She understood being abused. She understood feeling misunderstood. She even understood being tortured, though her own experiences were classified. But she'd answered almost every single one of his questions about her feelings, her life, her experiences-- and yet he'd barely shared any things about himself. Most of what she knew was from her own discovery, or through other people providing her with information.

If he loved her as much as Angela said, how could he possibly believe she would ever reject him or think he was weak? He knew more about her now than even her own family did-- and while yes, there were things about herself she'd never told him, it had more to do with not wanting to think about them, rather than any belief that he would think less of her. Though she had certainly almost persistently worried at the start of their partnership that he would decide she was weak, the fact remained that he stuck around even after she began telling him things-- and far more than what he'd ever told her. She'd trusted him, after a time, to know her better than she did, and to trust that she was stronger than she gave herself credit for. Ruefully, she also admitted that this was the truth here... once she'd gotten over the initial shock of it, she'd been handling it better then either after his death or when he was taken by Gallagher.

So what was it that held him back all this time? Her atheism? Her stated lack of disinterest in bearing children? Her emotional baggage? Her hereditary criminality? Or, as Angela posited, some cowardice induced by some deep insecurity he was afraid to admit to her, much less to himself?

Bah-- she thought to herself. She hated psychology for a reason. If everyone meant what they said, and said what they meant, things would be so much simpler. She'd come to her own conclusion that she might feel something for Booth beyond mere partnership sometime just before she and Hodgins were buried-- but then he was dating Cam, and then he broke up with Cam and said he had no intention of dating her, either, in respect for this quote unquote line. It was ridiculous. If he'd said "_I'd really like to try dating you, Bones, but I'm worried about the __Eppses__ of this world and what they could do to us_," then it would have been much easier for her to process, for them to make a rational decision together. She was also used to his being straightforward with her about her perceived obtuseness, and correcting her when she'd put her foot in somewhere. And yet here, he'd let her plod along in ignorance.

She admitted, though not without rancor, that people's hidden motivations confused her. And she'd thought that Booth knew that, and had dealt with her on those terms. For him to have some hidden agenda when it came to her, or to interrupt her attempts to date other people when she had no idea that he felt anything for her-- because she'd taken at face value his assertion that the would always and only be 'just partners,'-- well, she was becoming more angry with him, not less, the longer she thought about it.

How dare he think she couldn't handle some confession of his about some childhood weakness or adult impairment brought on by exceptional, extraordinary stress? How dare he think he could tell her one thing-- that he wasn't interested-- and then act on the opposite foundation. She'd gone through years thinking he didn't want her, and yet he'd intervened in her dates almost all of that time-- even Sully, when he kept showing up at the boat to bring her news of the case. And Sully... there was another thought. He'd told her she should accept Sully's offer, go with him on the trip. Would he honestly have let her sail off on him if he loved her as much as Angela seemed to think he did?

Lord knew, she was no expert, but if Booth had made some attempt to leave her with no hope for return, she liked to think that by this point even she would say something to him so he could make a fully informed decision-- he deserved to have all facts available to him. But he'd deprived her of those facts, of that information. That she'd decided to stay had nothing to do with Booth's lies of omission.

"Honey, you look like you're getting more riled up again," came Angela's voice. She was wrapped in a robe, a towel 'round her hair, when she reentered the room and sat on the sofa next to her friend. Brennan looked over and saw she'd sipped her way through the most of a bottle of wine.

Brennan nodded.

"I can't believe he would think I would honestly think so little of him that I would reject him because of whatever it is that he's been through. Face it, Ange, I am the queen of emotional baggage. And really, it makes me quite angry that he should lie to me about leaving with Sully, because he thought he didn't deserve me. Don't I get any say in that decision?

And in any event-- I respected his privacy, and yet he felt free to interrupt mine anytime he found out my evenings involved male companionship. At least I refrained because of the line he explicitly drew and the reasonable conclusions to be drawn therefrom-- he wasn't interested in me, and even if he was, it wasn't ever going to happen. If what you're saying it true, then all his actions stem from a wholly untrue hypothesis that I am incapable of processing the fact that he's killed and hurt people. It's untrue-- I have killed people, more than he knows. It's not fun, it's horrible, you regret it forever, but how could he possibly think that I count the loss of one life as any less than each of the many he's taken? They each mean the same, no question. And how could he think that I would think ill of him for doing what was necessary toward a greater end?"

She shook her head disgustedly. "I know hardly anything about him, in the end. He never volunteers any information, and he's controlling. He's always telling me how to behave around other people, never introduces me to any of his colleagues, and yet acts like every single aspect of my inner life is his business. He wants me to tell him everything, and yet tells me nothing. That's not cowardice, Angela. That's selfishness and manipulation."

Angela sighed. "I don't know, sweetie. I see what you're saying. I agree with you that the '_you squints_' thing is getting old. Either we're part of the crime fighting team or we're not, and he seems to want it both ways. I don't think he's being intentionally manipulative, though, and I really do think that his selfishness is more insecurity. You know most cops are pigs, and they're probably all over Booth about how hot you are whenever you're over there to remind them. I mean, some of those female agents are attractive, but sweetie, you've got it going on over most of them."

Brennan's brow furrowed. "Going on?"

Angela laughed softly. "It means, sweetie, that you're smarter, more beautiful, tougher, and all around more attractive than 99% of the ladies at the Hoover, which means Booth probably gets so much shit from the men he works with that it embarrasses the hell out of him. You know how he is around you about sex. Probably makes him feel all cave man to have guys talking smack about you in the locker room."

"But that doesn't change the fact that he treats my life like an open book, one he never has to return to the library, and his like one that's locked up down in the stacks, that I'm never going to get access to."

"I agree, sweetie. It's a problem. He's got a lot of explaining to do."

Brennan sat, thinking, and sipping the last of the wine from her glass. "He's had four years to explain. Why should I wait any longer? He should know me better by now-- certainly, he's made it his business to. It offends me, Angela. That he should trust me so little? I don't know. If he doesn't know me well enough to know that I could handle whatever he told me about himself, then all those other things... they're important, but not critical. But to not trust me long enough to give him a chance to explain himself? That's offensive."

"What are you going to do?" Angela said. "I mean... I'm sure he's thought about it and has a lot of things he wants to explain to you..."

Brennan gave her an irony-filled half-smile. "And I'm sure you've told him exactly where he's put his foot in it, too, Angela. You shouldn't hug him so much. His cologne comes off on your jackets."

Angela startled, then looked embarrassed. "I..."

Brennan sighed. "It's okay. I know you mean well. And I know that you're fond of Booth, everything else notwithstanding. I just... I don't know, Angela. It took me a while to trust him, but once I did, I never doubted him for a second-- at least until his death. It just seems like everything's been intensified, or falling apart since that point. He withheld information from me, despite the fact that he knows damned well that I don't speculate and can't form a logical, reasonable conclusion unless I'm provided with sufficient facts to work with. Especially-- especially since Zach. That's a betrayal of things he knows are important to me, and about something so important... if he felt that way and hoped at some point to act on it. And... if he didn't expect to act on it, because I'm a nerd, or a robot, or an atheist, or I don't want kids and a house in the country, then it was cruel of him to prevent me from seeking my own happiness with someone besides him. If I meant anything permanent to him, I just don't see how he could think that his actions wouldn't be hurtful."

Angela, listening, nodded. "No, sweetie, you're right to feel the way you do, and give me some credit here, I usually argue more with you." Brennan snorted ironically as her artist friend continued. "I ... I really hope you guys work it out, and while I wish you'd said '_screw the line_' at an earlier point, Bren, and respected him a little less and your biological urges a little more, I understand why you did what you did. Booth's different. But... I still think you should give him a chance to explain. I think he's starting to get it all straight in his head, and let me tell you something, he's seriously hurting."

Brennan said solemnly, her eyes glittering a little, "He should. I ... I just don't know, Ange. I tried it his way, being open to things and conceding possibilities and putting my heart out there. It didn't work very well, and as much as I'm not particularly good at it, at least the only thing I didn't tell him was something he already said wasn't going to happen. I... I don't know. And I _hate_ not knowing. And he _knows_ I hate not knowing, and yet he withheld information anyway. _Lying asshole_."

Angela came over at that point and stood next to Bren, patting her friend's hair as she pulled her head to her stomach. "My poor Bren. You should tell him he's an asshole, but you should give him a listen, too. If you don't believe him once he's done explaining, you can always punch him."

Brennan snorted. "That I can. But my left jab isn't as strong as my right hook."

Angela's laugh bubbled up under Brennan's ear at Brennan's response. "That's my girl. Well, just practice your left jab or your kicks or something else kung fu. I think it would be hot to watch you kick Booth's ass."

At Angela's crack, Brennan burst out laughing and pulled away to look at her friend. "Ange, you think _anything_ involving Booth's ass is hot."

Angela waggled her eyebrows. "And you don't? Come on, Bren. You're mad, not dead."

Brennan snorted. "It's true. He's a well-proportioned, well-structured lying asshole. And his gluteus maximus is exceptionally well-formed."

"That's my girl. You just kick that exceptionally well-formed gluteus maximus if you need to."

Brennan smiled, catlike. "Perhaps I shall."


	13. Chapter 13

Something was off with Dr. Brennan aside from this nerve injury, Cam decided. The anthropologist had come in for the afternoon with Angela after the two of them went to Dr. Brennan's morning doctor's appointment. The doctor had her arm in a sling and did clearly manifest the right-sided muscular tension and hand movements consistent with parasthesthias present even after the application of a nerve block. There was no question she was injured, as if her reduced cervical range of motion and her compensatory responses in turning to speak with her interns and other persons at the lab were not clue enough.

But there was something more to it, despite Dr. Brennan's own chagrined admission that her energy with the injury was erratic, and that she would likely be available no more than a half day each day for at least another week. Something... emotional, not just physical. There was something the doctor wasn't saying-- Angela, either, though she was sure the artist knew exactly what was going on.

Lord knew, Cam was no good at reading Dr. Brennan's responses. She left that to Seeley. But it was odd for Dr. Brennan to be out two days in a row, or for Angela to take them off, too. Even after Seeley's "death," Dr. Brennan had been back in the lab right away. Yes, Cam could tell that she was in shock, and that working was the only way she could get through it-- at least she knew it better than that dweeb of a psychologist... but for Dr. Brennan to now take two days in a row off, and copy Seeley on the email? And she was both more quiet and thoughtful, without being terse-- if Cam didn't know better, she'd almost say the woman had her heart partially broken, except worse than the time that Sullivan sailed off on her. And yet—Seeley wasn't the one driving her around to her appointments. And that email-- it was as if Seeley didn't know she was injured, or he didn't know what she was planning to do about how to deal with her injury. She smelled a rat. A Seeley-sized rat.

When Dr. Brennan finished inspecting work done by her interns on a CIA consult, then joined Cam to make some observations on a Navy request that was primarily a pathology matter, but whose fractures were rather odd, Cam tipped her head and decided to pry. A little. If Angela wasn't talking, it had to be good—or really bad, as the case might be. "I haven't seen Seeley around in a few days," she said. "How's he doing?"

Dr. Brennan regarded her with an expression that was as blank and unreadable as anything she'd ever given her when they first started working together. "It's hard to say. I've been preoccupied..." she replied. Cam blinked. She was telling the truth, Dr. Brennan was a terrible liar. But there was a whole hell of a lot there underneath that she knew would explode if she tried to dig at it.

"Ah," Cam replied. "He's just been rather terse when I've emailed him. I thought you might now."

Brennan's mouth twisted bitterly. "No. He hasn't confided in me." Again. Not lying—but so much unsaid. She needed to revise her opinion of Dr. Brennan as being un-subtle, rather than simply repressed.

Standing, Brennan brushed her one good hand on the front of the coat she'd awkwardly buttoned over her sling-immobilized arm, and groaned a bit as she stood. "I think I'm going to call a taxi and go," she advised Cam. "All the sympathetic muscular tension is making the standing rather uncomfortable."

Cam could hardly argue, the woman was a textbook illustration of "muscular hypertonicity--" she even had occasional twitches in her fourth and fifth fingers and visible lower back spasm, though Dr. Brennan had assured her that the EMG and EEG results were normal, and that she should have a full return to function. "Maybe Angela should drive you?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, she said she some backlog, and I'm awkward but not incapable right now. I do appreciate your understanding while she's been assisting me at home." She gave Cam not an open or inviting smile, but at least an attempt at an appreciative expression.

Wow, Cam thought to herself. Something serious happened if Dr. Brennan was being so open, for her.

"Well, the sooner you get better, the sooner the team gets back to catching the bad guys, Dr. Brennan." Cam hesitated for a moment, then gave up the ghost of pretending to try to be the woman's boss. "Lord knows what I'd have to do if you quit. The board would have my ass out of here in a nanosecond."

Brennan looked at her quietly. "Don't worry. I haven't been good about finding a replacement for Zach to this point, I realize, but please be assured I have no plans to leave the lab until I find an adequate replacement to assist the team and lend whatever forensic assistance the various agencies we consult with may require. I intend to step up my efforts as soon as I return to work full time."

And with that, she gave Cam another half-smile, and walked out.

"_Until I find an adequate replacement? As soon as I return to work full time_?"

A chill crept up Cam's spine. The board really _would_ kill her if Dr. Brennan left, even if the person she found to replace her was capable and more personable than Dr. Brennan-- Dr. Brennan's research and publishing, the celebrity she lent to the institution as an author, and what Cam would admit was an admirable amount of press-generating Charlie's Angel badassery with Seeley lent the Medico-Legal lab not just prestige, but increased financial contributions above and beyond any other part of the institution, much less any other forensic unit in the country. If Dr. Brennan were to go elsewhere, more than a fair amount of that financial and press interest would follow her. The Board and its fundraising arm would not be happy with Cam. Not by a long shot.

As little as Cam knew otherwise about the anthropologist, she did know one thing-- Dr. Brennan never mentioned _anything_ aloud until it was a serious option she thought had strong possibilities. She'd avoided finding a replacement for Zach up to this point since she clearly had no intention of leaving the lab, and seemed, in fact, to find solace here and... in her continuing work with Seeley. Which only meant one thing.

She picked up her phone and dialed a familiar number.

"Booth," came the voice at the other end of the line.

"Seeley, meet me at the diner in ten minutes."

"Why?" Shit. He was immediately defensive and almost sounded panicked.

"Because Dr. Brennan was in for a bit this afternoon, apologized for not finding a replacement for Zach, and then went on to explicitly reassure me that she would not leave the lab until she could find an adequate replacement for herself."

"Until?" His voice squeaked. He definitely sounded panicked. And good cop that he was, he picked up on the same word that pricked Cam's ears.

"Yes, Seeley, _until_. What the hell happened?"

"I'll... I'll see you in ten minutes." And with that, he hung up his phone.


	14. Chapter 14

Four-thirty, and he'd managed not to burst into tears, have cold sweats, or have his voice crack all day. Hell, he'd even gotten in a good workout at the gym, though his hand-to-hand combat partner sure as hell didn't appreciate it. At least Booth had been _kind_ of fair and picked a guy three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier to kick the shit out of.

He'd managed not to yell at any of his subs, plowed his way through the paper that bred on his desk like a hutch full of damned rabbits, and actually choked down half a burger before he got nauseous from Bones-withdrawal all over again. Which is what it was. He hadn't gone more than three days without seeing her in almost a year and a half-- not since that summer she spent with Russ, right when Cam started. It physically hurt, not seeing her, forget that whole gaping hole in his heart thing for a minute. As if the hole next to his door that he saw every time he came and went from his house wasn't enough of a reminder.

The body's a weird thing, Booth thought to himself as he flipped Hawkins onto the mat again. You'd think only booze or cigarettes or other physical drugs would leave you feeling in physical withdrawal-- but it wasn't true. It was anything that gave you that adrenaline rush-- the one you expected, needed, craved, wanted, that gave you something to run the rest of your day against. You lose the source for the rush? Your body reacts to it. Running for an hour until your lungs burned, or pumping iron at the gym or beating the crap out of the guy who used to hold the record for most throws in a bout until you blew it with Bones-- those things just didn't do it. Bones was his charge-- her voice, her smell, the sight of those hips swaying and that hair swinging... he flipped Hawkins again so hard the guy called a break.

"What's gotten into you, man?" Hawkins complained when they went back to the showers. "You're not all 'roided up. You havin' girl troubles?"

Booth just gave him a glare, from which Hawkins shrank. "Nah, man, forget I said anything. But... you whooped my ass good. Anytime you're in the mood, you let me know, I haven't had a good fight in a while."

Booth snorted despite himself. "Thanks for the compliment. Maybe I will."

So he'd returned to his office after his bout feeling at least a little more calm, and did more some more work that made his admins all groan, since it meant now they had to deal with it. "Can it, kids," he grumbled. "Not like you don't all get to sit around on your hands when I'm busy. Think of it as job security."

He'd just plowed through about a hundred bullshit emails-- _remind me to get off that forwarding list for the stupid cat jokes from Stella in Evidence_-- when his cell rang. Camille.

"Booth," he said, answering. If she would ever use his last name as he now preferred to be called, he would finally start calling her Cam. Until then, though...

"Seeley, meet me at the diner in ten minutes." She sounded more than annoyed. She sounded _boy-are-you-gonna-get-it_ pissed.

"Why?" The only possible reason was Bones. Someone told her, or she'd figured it out. Her next words weren't precisely confirmation, but they made all that no cold sweat-no crying-no voice cracking shit fly out the window.

"Because Dr. Brennan was in for a bit this afternoon, apologized for not finding a replacement for Zach, and then went on to explicitly reassure me that she would not leave the lab until she could find an adequate replacement for herself."

"Until?" Yep. Voice cracking. Cold sweats all over. _Fuckfuckfuck_.

Until? Bones never said anything out loud until it was a real possibility. She hated speculation. Which meant she was thinking about leaving, because how many times had she said she was fine and was '_more than sufficiently capable of handling all the work myself, without even an intern_.' She was thinking of hiring a young Zach-level employee and someone at her level? _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_.

"Yes, Seeley, _until_. What the hell happened?"

"I'll... I'll see you in ten minutes." And with that, he hung up his cell, shoved it into his pocket, and bolted for his bathroom, where he promptly heaved up that half cheeseburger he'd managed at lunch.


	15. Chapter 15

Cam was hustling out past Angela's office looking like her knickers were in a twist, and not long after Bren took off for the day. Angela couldn't help it. "Cam!" she called, grabbing the CIA I.D. file just so she'd have some excuse to run after her. Oh, yeah, she thought. La Perla knickers definitely in a twist. "Yes?" asked Cam, looking like she was late for something important.

"I'm not getting anywhere on this I.D.," she said, displaying the half-finished sketch. "I need you to either get the CIA to authorize me to look at more data on the suspected victim, or let me take the skull home to Bren to look at and do tissue markers for."

Cam jumped. "Why? Is Dr. Brennan not coming in tomorrow after all?"

Ange shook her head. "She didn't say so. I mean, I've got to go get her and bring her back, and I was going to run her supper, but..." Then the artist had a thought, and shut up for a moment. "Well, I don't know. I shouldn't speculate. Bren's her own gal."

Cam practically started vibrating, she was so tense. She gave Angela about the most insincere smile she'd ever seen, and believe her, Cam had a whole wardrobe of insincere smiles, then said "Well, I... if she's not, I'll give the intern the day off... if it's okay with her, I mean, I wouldn't want to..."

Angela nodded, then stood to the side. "Well, you're off somewhere. I'll talk to you later. And... if Bren has any news, I'll make sure she lets you know in due time."

Cam gave her a watery smile, said thank you, and hustled out the door on those Jimmy Choos of her that still didn't make her look more than five foot even. Well, more power to the girl if she could wear stilettos like that all the time, Angela thought, as she watched the pathologist hustle off.

"You look like you're pondering, Angie," came a familiar voice.

Angela turned to give Hodgins a slight smile. God, she missed him, and boy did she make a mess of it. Maybe, when she got Bren through this mess she could figure her own self out, and maybe not wreck Roxie again in the process.

"Yeah, Hodgie. Some things to think about, you know?"

Hodgins stroked his beard. "Something about the fact that Dr. B's been out for two days, we haven't seen hide nor hair of the G-Man in the same amount of time, the fact that Sweets and Booth both hurled in a garbage can at O'Reilly's yesterday after you left, and what I just overheard passing Cam's office when Dr. B. said that she was going to start working seriously on finding a replacement for Zach?"

"Something like that," Angela nodded. "You're good, Hodgie. I didn't even know O'Reilly's _existed_ until yesterday."

"I'm a crazy conspiracy theorist," he said. "Not a dumb one." He thought a minute longer, then said "Five bucks Cam's off to meet Booth at the diner. Let's go."

"Be right with you," Angela nodded, running off to grab her things. On the way there, she sent Brennan a text. She and Hodgins practically ran to the diner, then slunk in to take a table behind the old friends, thankfully obscured by coats. The waitress came right over and took their orders, both squints trying to keep their voices low so they wouldn't be recognized. Then both sat quietly, straining to listen.

"So you're basically saying that instead of telling Brennan how you felt about her, you hopped in the sack with me? Seeley, you're an ass." Hodgins' jaw immediately hit the table, then tightened immediately.

"You didn't seem to mind at the time."

"Yeah. I also thought you thought of yourself as her big brother."

"Why does it matter? You didn't even _like_ Bones at the time-- remember? You wanted to fire her." Angela's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"Chick code of conduct, Seeley. Never sleep with a man when he's got the hots for someone else, whether or not we had strings. I'll say it again. You're an ass." At that, Angela nodded.

"I ... I just don't... but ... are you sure she said '_until_?'"

"Of course I am. It was like time slowed, and all I could see was this big ol' pink slip floating down onto my desk with a big '_Your career in the big leagues is over_' written all over it."

"But... where would she go?"

Cam let out a disgusted sigh. "Where wouldn't she go? She gets about a bajillion job offers a month-- probably, if what Angela says is correct, then she stays for you, Seeley, just because she values what you're telling me _you_ made her think would never be more than friendship. Really, I'm getting in line behind Brennan. You need a kick in the nuts."

"I know." Hodgins grimaced at the sound of resignation in Booth's voice, then looked up with an '_oh, shit_,' look on his face. Sweets' face brightened as he came in and saw them, but Angela quickly motioned him over with her finger on her lips. He complied, sitting and watching as Angela pointed, then also listened.

"But what do I do? Angela says that I need to give her space, and Sweets says I basically need to tell her everything from the start including all the shit with my Dad..."

Cam interrupted him. "You've never told her all that shit? Even after this last go round?"

There was a long silence. "No."

"You're a stupid fuck, Seeley. If she just moves halfway across the country without slitting your throat you'll be lucky." Sweets' jaw dropped, as did everyone else's at the eavesdropping table. Cam's voice continued.

"You know and I know how much your life sucked growing up. But you know what? At least you had our house to come to when things got rough. You could come over whenever you needed, those four years 'til you went off to the Army. She didn't have that escape, Seeley. How dare you think she couldn't handle whatever you had to tell her? You know damned well she had no one those same four years of her life. Geez. I used to think she was the insensitive one."

There was a long pause, and then Booth's voice, sounding pleading. "So what do I do?"

"Grovel. Go over there and start groveling right now. Keep groveling. As much and as often as it takes. Over and over. And if she kicks you in the nuts, roll over and say '_Thank you, may I please have another_?' If she throws you out, take the next possible opportunity to grovel again-- well, without her calling the cops on you, but otherwise..."

"No… you're right, I've left it too long already," said Booth's voice, sounding tired. There was a sound of a chair scraping, and Sweets motioned them all to stand and pretend that they were just sitting down.

Booth's eyes were on his feet as he passed them, and Cam was hardly more attentive on her way out. The three sank back down into their chairs, processing what they'd heard. And then, Angela's phone buzzed, and she looked at the screen to see if she had a text. It was from Brennan, and the response made her smile. She showed it to her companions, both crowding over the table to look.

To the message "_Tell me you're playing cat and mouse_," there was a one word response.

"_Meow_."


	16. Chapter 16

"Played." Yes. That was the word for it. "Played." Booth and Angela had both used it at various points to refer to the interrogation of suspects-- a term meant to indicate that the object of some psychological manipulations by third parties was being pushed to some end of which they were unaware. Brennan was being played from multiple angles-- not necessarily to ends she disagreed with, or by people who meant to harm her. But still-- she was being played, and she was a woman who preferred to be in control of her actions and her reactions.

Her father wanted her to welcome him back with open arms, and had practically thrown her at Booth without ever speaking with her about it. He may have thought she didn't hear that conversation he had with Booth right after she fired him, but her father didn't know lots of things about her. That Booth asked for a favor for Parker was the only reason she'd let him stay, in the end.

In the end, Russ and Amy wanted a rich aunt who babysat, as much as Russ did also have affection for her, and as much as she did enjoy Hallie and Emma. Hallie was a curious child, an avid reader, and mature enough not to ask disturbing personal questions.

Angela wanted someone to do girl things dancing and drinking and art openings-- none of which Brennan minded in principle, she liked Angela's art. It was just that when she wanted to go see a textile exhibit or a documentary on new tribal behaviors, she ended up having to go by herself. While Brennan was more than grateful for Angela's help these past few days, and she did need someone to get her over the initial shock of it all, things had become a bit too much of a slumber party. Angela hardly disagreed with Brennan at all as to her speculations about Booth's actions (as if that weren't enough of a paradigm shift to have clued Angela in) and didn't challenge Brennan as to her own behavior-- for once. Brennan was indeed sure that there were many things that Booth could have done better or different-- but she knew, though she didn't like to say so out loud, that she did have a lot of emotional baggage. Ange had helped a little in sorting the bags out, but Brennan needed to unpack them-- sort out the details, find out where each bag's contents belonged. Angela just kept moving the bags around without opening them much.

Booth wanted a girlfriend or whatever he wanted from her in addition to their partnership without doing any work on his part. She knew it wasn't that simple, but that was how it felt to her. As if it was magic, or an answered prayer, or some other ridiculous nonexistent source of good fortune, including pushing her buttons so she responded the way he wanted her to. He wanted her to fall into his lap or something-- or have her guess what was on his mind and make him all better. And it wasn't that she didn't want to help him as much as he'd helped her with the difficult things in life. She did. But she felt deceived, still, and yet, she knew she was missing something.

Sweets wanted someone to write about. But he also didn't want to have her beat him up, either, so she was pretty sure he was going to watch his step with her. Plus-- experiments aside-- she was sure that the boy did hero-worship Booth, and to a lesser extent, her. He would most likely want to keep their partnership together just so he could write about and bask in their reflected glory.

Cam wanted a good little forensic anthropologist who didn't challenge her authority in front of the other team members, though she knew damned well that if Brennan walked out on her, the rest of the team would follow. Cam was a good pathologist, however-- Brennan was willing to tolerate her and play more politics than most people gave her credit for, simply by playing oblivious, for the sake of faster results for their victims, which Cam's expertise did provide. Their interactions were professional-- and Cam knew by now to stay out of Brennan's way as Brennan did for her. She didn't particularly care for Cam's erratic conduct regarding office gossip and being a boss- because sleeping with Booth, and then Angela's husband? not too professional-- but those were not personally directed at Brennan, though they might affect her.

The only person who didn't have an agenda and who was upright with their own motivations and faults and who gave a full answer in response to a question was... oh, she hoped she was right. She didn't believe in luck, but she found herself crossing her fingers regardless.

"Jack Hodgins..."

"Hi... Jack. It's Temperance Brennan. I'm sorry, is it too late to call?"

"Dr. B. Hey-- no, it's fine, it's not even eight-thirty. How you feeling? We've missed you around here. No one to say '_hey chop-chop_' without being a ball-buster like Cam." At his friendly, open tone, Brennan smiled. Yes, she'd done the right thing.

"Look. Jack. I could use your advice on something and if you're not comfortable, as it's a personal matter, then I'd understand, but..."

"Sure. But isn't Angie staying with you?"

"No. I made her go home for the night, I ... spilled the last of some wine on her clothes. She's going to be back in the morning to take me to my doctor's appointment."

"And... ah... Booth's not around to assist?" He sounded surprised, but not hesitant. Jack was an alpha male of his own type.

"Well, it's about Booth. Partially. And I could use your opinion."

"Sure. Can I ask why?" His voice was both curious and perplexed.

She didn't blame him, really, and reveled in the fact that he asked her a direct, uncomplicated question as it occurred to him. Jack was a scientist with no vested interest in their relationship-- she was his boss, but he was the lab's largest donor, so they were monetary and intellectual equals. He could challenge her conclusions and assumptions-- test her logic.

On a personal level, though, she wasn't surprised he might be perplexed that she'd called him. It wasn't as if they had socialized much even after the Gravedigger, and that was in large part her own fault. One more thing to address when this mess with Booth was over-- whatever the outcome, she'd become too emotionally dependent on Booth-- and noted with irony her own failure to run in fear from the fact that she was emotionally dependent on Booth. Sweets would have a field day.

She took a deep breath, then laid it all out on the table.

"You're a man. I find your company and humor enjoyable, respect the discipline you bring to your work, and as far as I am able to determine you have no agenda toward me other than the interest in working with a team of intellectual peers. You tell me when I look nice and are unfraid to have me catching you look at me as a woman, you argue with me about data, and if you need something from me you come and ask for it directly. You engage in the thought process out loud, have an inquiring mind, and are willing to revisit prior assumptions. You don't expect me to read your mind. And... some things happened with Booth that are ... difficult to sort through. I could use your opinion."

Her thoughts started out slow, but in the end, all the reasons she needed his help rushed out in a torrent of words, and her 'I could use your opinion' came out more high-pitched and confused-sounding than she'd intended.

Jack responded with consideration. "Thanks, Dr. B., I like to think you're right, and hey-- glad you're not pissed about the checking you out thing. But ... yeah. Reading minds? Not a fair expectation-- it's not your area of expertise, or anyone else's, that I'm aware of."

Brennan hoped she didn't imagine that he was sounding intrigued the longer they spoke.

"Exactly. And, well... well..."

"Yeah. You nearly die with someone, you don't need to live in each others' pockets forever after to call them on bullshit."

"Thank you. Yes." She breathed out a long exhalation. "So ... yes. I had a... extreme disagreement with Booth, and it's been, well, difficult."

"Difficult but not '_go to hell and never set foot in my lab ever again even though I have a mysterious injury_' difficult?" came his concerned voice over the line.

"Yes, something like that." There was a pause, and Brennan hoped. Booth tended to threaten to shoot Hodgins on a regular basis, and it never seemed to deter him.

"Sure thing, Dr. B., I'd be flattered to help. Did you already eat?"

"A little, but early."

"Mind if I pick up something on the way?"

"Whatever you like."

"Cool, see you soon, Dr. B!" And with that, he hung up. Brennan stared for a moment or two at the phone, then wondered if Hodgins would mind if she took notes on their process when he arrived.

When Hodgins arrived, he gave her a "_you look like hell, good to see you_,_ Dr. B._" greeting when he came in, and she'd sighed inwardly all over again when he left her physical appearance, canted head, splinted arm and all at that one remark. Just over a half hour later-- after some delicious channa masala, parathas, and samosas, along with some cold Kingfishers, Brennan felt much revived by Jack's humorous company and far more ready to tackle whatever uncomfortable truths about her own conduct they might uncover.

After they'd dished out the food and began to eat, Hodgins looked at her critically, then said, "Fine. Let's treat this like one of the cases. No Ockham's Razor at this point-- let's just review everything, and then distill to the essentials from there."

So Brennan told him the whole story through Angela's bringing her home, and then related her own thoughts, as well as what Angela related to her about Booth. Concluding, Brennan said thoughtfully, "I think ... Angela's being as good a friend as she can, but I have a feeling she's holding my hand a bit too much on this, which isn't her usual approach-- she's more likely to hit me over the head with something. I'm sure ... there's something I've overlooked, some flaw in my perception of my reactions to things. The pieces are not aligning themselves. And... while I'm sure that Booth could have handled many things better, not all of this is his fault, by any measure of things. It ... I ... there's some passivity in there somewhere that bothers me.

Hodgins nodded, sipping a beer and stroking his beard a few moments. "Okay. Well. First and foremost. You two have got to work it out or the Earth will spin out of its orbit. No, really. I mean, I thought me and Angie were forever. If you and Booth don't work it out then it's all just going to suck big time. Although," he then said, looking her up and down with a mischevious wink, "I always did like my women left-handed and gimpy. What say you and me screw the G-Man and the artist and run off to start a mad-scientist lab someplace where all the utensils are made for lefties, and breed little bones, bug & slime squints to take over the world?"

Brennan paused for a moment, then laughed as she hadn't in days. "Oh," she said, wiping her eyes, "thank you. I needed that."

Jack smiled, snickering to himself at the idea. "You know I'm just kidding, right? The first time we'd have a fight you'd kick my ass from here to Fresno, and I kind of like my ass. But no, really-- I think there's a hell of a lot of this on the G-Man. But I can definitely think of a few things where his own mistaken impressions might have been ... reinforced, let's say, if he weren't so merely human as the rest of us?"

Brennan nodded attentively. "Good. I'm glad. I mean ... Jack. I don't like to be reminded of it, and I do try ... but really. I'm bad at relationships. I try to be forthright with people but... the message doesn't always get through. Or I think someone means one thing, and they actually mean another."

Jack nodded. "I know. It would be a hell of a lot simpler if everyone said what they meant, hunh? But unfortunately, we're not all HPLC displays."

Brennan smiled at the analogy. "I try to say what I mean, but it's also been made clear to me on a number of occasions that I shouldn't say anything at all."

Jack looked thoughtful. "Okay, look. Never been a fan of the G-Man's way of treating you like a bad kid when you offend his Catholic grandma manners, but he has no problem being all snarky and shit with us back at the lab, when he should damned well know you're trying. He ever think maybe having a long, detailed conversation with you about why, precisely, there's an alternative approach, rather than just snipe at you in terse little one offs might not be more productive? That's where that '_not saying anything at all' _thing comes in like you just said. Understandable. Really-- he gets all PMSy on some stuff and it's like whoa, dude, chill for a sec. But-- lemme ask you something, and I'm getting at the '_passivity_' thing you mentioned a bit ago, okay, so just humor me while I tease out the strands of how people might percieve that, alright?"

"Okay. But... perceptions are so ... amorphous."

Jack thought for a moment longer. "No-- they're not. I mean, I can see why, but don't think of them as amorphous. Think of them as ... prismatic. What you try to put out there is the original light, but other peoples' experiences, through which your communications are mediated? That's the prism. And their understanding? Well, that's the light that comes out on the other side of the prism. And... you know there are certain basic rules about light that obtain over a number of variables. So... understanding is more or less refracted, depending on the type of prism and the angle at which your light went in. If you can think a little about what angle people have positioned their prism at, then maybe you can do a better job predicting how your light's going to come out on the other side. You know-- refracted? impartial? total reflection? If you think about it in terms of how to predict or achieve a particular spectrum of refraction, then you need to learn about the prism-- ask the incremental questions that allow you to discern the size and material of the prism-- type of glass, geometric shape, all that jive.

Once you know about people's experiences, their prism, then it might be easier for you to predict how what you're trying to say is going to be understood. And ... if you think of it scientifically, you can break it down into the incremental inquiries needed to systematically approach a result... because I've got to say, Dr. B., while you wipe the floor with me with your scientific process, you tend to just ask the big old '_why_' end-all, be-all question when it's something non-scientific, and miss some of the questions in the meantime that might yield a more comprehensive answer. And... well, you know this, you do. Sometimes people don't have a good reason, or any reason at all for why they do the things that they do, and their reactions will always be inexplicable, no matter how cautiously and systematically you attempt to discern their reaction and present your data accordingly. But the rest of them? Well, I think you'll find that while there are a number of variables, there are some things that will yield to prediction once you've spent enough time observing the phenomena."

Brennan felt a smile nearly burst her face open.

"Maybe your mad-scientist lab thing isn't such a bad idea. Jack, I could kiss you if it wouldn't be vastly inappropriate, although you are quite well structured and more than reasonably symmetrical... but in any event. Yes. That ... that makes sense, and I do that... it makes sense."

She felt like laughing and crying at the same time. She'd always prided herself on her rigorous logic, but there it was-- the flaw in her own logic. She forgot that in "real" life as in the lab, asking the largest question first--the ultimate question that assumes each bit of inquiry that came before-- rarely yields any result, much less a comprehensible one, since there would be no need for the scientific process, otherwise.

"Basically ... I'm not showing my work-- or asking other people to show theirs. I'm just ... asking the ultimate question that they don't always know to explain rationally, without the precursor inquiries? If I break down the analysis, then..."

Jack picked up his beer and raised it in toast. "Yeah, Dr. B. You've got a wicked learning curve, there."

Brennan felt another smile bloom on her face. "I told Dr. Goodman once I had a steep learning curve."

Jack snorted. "Yeah, almost straight up, baby. So don't get all interested in my slime, or I'll have to agree to fire myself and pay you more for doing it better than I can, not that you need the money, hey?" He shot her a wink, and she laughed all over again, deciding not to call him on the '_baby_' thing. It was like Booth threatening to shoot things-- it was just a verbal tic.

Brennan picked up the last samosa and swirled it in the tamarind chutney, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. When she finished, she took a swallow of her beer and looked at Jack keenly.

"Okay. So I see where I could do a better job of asking smaller questions and trying to figure out the mediating experiences. Anthropologically, I know that history and culture can have mediating and reinforcing influences on one another-- I just ... never thought of it in individual terms, I guess. So if I just try to remind myself to proceed incrementally, and not always ask the ultimate question, perhaps I will do better, prospectively."

Jack nodded, smiling as she thought aloud. "Cool, Dr. B. So ... incremental inquiries, yeah. But ... that other stuff. That '_passivity_' thing you mentioned? And the '_not saying anything at all_?' Well-- like I said already. I don't really care for the way Booth gives you a verbal smackdown sometimes like you've done something you should know better about, when honestly, if I knew more than two personal things about the guy, I think I'd fall over in shock, and it's not like the dude doesn't have a sense by now of the way you look at things. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's the textbook definition of standup guy, and there's no doubt in my mind that he completely adores you and would be really upset if you told him he was hurting your feelings, but I get the feeling his prism's kind of like a black hole, and a complete mirror, you know?

He refracts all the communication coming in from outside himself into the entire spectrum, I mean, that's why he's so good at his cop thing, but at the same time, he's a black hole when it comes to his own life. Dude does not, ever, give up personal information. So... four possibly inter-related questions. What does he shut you down on, and why do you let him, and what are the possible causes and effects? And... are there any things you shut him down on? Because there are lots of things you guys have no problem arguing about until you're both ready to explode. I think it's the stuff you don't talk about, after a certain point, that's why he ... blew up and why you ... shut down."

Brennan was listening intently as Jack encapsulated so many of the conflicting thoughts she'd had, and at last understood the meaning of the phrase "_weight lifting from your shoulders_." And hearing from Jack, who was less of a romantic than Angela, that Booth felt something for her was reassuring in a way that Angela's assertions just weren't. Which caused her to wonder.

"Jack. You said you had no doubt about Booth's feelings toward me ... but-- Angela says it was obvious the other way, too, and I'm not so sure, I mean, I was trying to respect his line and not be obvious about things, but..."

It wasn't the response she expected, but it was true. Jack laughed-- "Dr. B. If I ever pulled you out of your chair and wrestled your coat onto you to go eat at the dinner, you'd kick my ass. Of course it's clear to anyone with eyes in their head that you were at least willing to let him get away with things no sane human would otherwise try around you. But... and I admit I don't know the G-Man as well as you do, and I'm certainly not asking you to spill your guts here, I think your experiences from before you knew each other, whatever deep dark shit you've each been through, causes you to refract the same kinds of inputs in different ways. And ... I think you're afraid of the same kinds of things, but have different ways of dealing with those fears. And like I said earlier-- the experiences warp the understanding of what the other one's trying to put out there."

Brennan nodded. It made sense, though she wished all over again that she knew more about Booth. "Jack... should I have kept asking Booth things? I mean, he's told me some things, but ... I never ask him about anything because ... well, I assume he would tell me if he wanted me to know."

Jack shook his head. "I don't know, Dr. B. It sounds like he had his back up about giving up information, or being called on stuff he felt bad about, even when you weren't trying to make him feel bad. I mean... think of it from his perspective. I don't know how long he's had the hots for you, but it probably made him feel guilty to be hearing questions from you about people he was sleeping with, when really he wanted to be sleeping with you. Major knee jerk reaction. And ... I mean, dude is Army and cop. He's not going to give anything up unless he feels like it. But ... I think you took a slapdown when you didn't have to in some ways-- and applied it to things you shouldn't have."

"How so?"

"You're a private person, and you don't like people nosing into your business. Which is cool-- you don't gossip, and you don't spread it if someone tells it to you. But even as you don't volunteer information about yourself, and don't spread other peoples' news for them, what you see as respecting someone's privacy can, to someone with a different prism, seem like a lack of curiosity-- a lack of interest. Anyone who knows you and isn't worried about what you think of them knows that you're interested and very protective of the people you care about, but ... someone who's worried what you think? Your respecting people's privacy and respecting others' can come across differently than what you intend. I expect the G-Man, for whatever reason, was worried about what you thought of him. You'll have to ask him what deep dark shit makes him think you'll think less of him, and be more explicit about the fact that he doesn't have to worry. But in little questions, not big ones."

She shook her head, thinking. "There are a number of places I believe I could start, yes, some places where I perhaps assumed that he understood my respect for him was unchanged, when perhaps I could have asked more, or reassured him more explicitly."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Next part. You explained the line thing and I think Angie's right. He was stupid to draw it, you were stupid to respect it, and in any event it's so blown out of the water that it's irrelevant. The real question is why neither one of you thought that the other was interested, or why you didn't deserve them, and were willing to believe that they thought the worst of you. You both have that issue, and yeah, you better figure it out or Boy Therapist will be all over your co-dependent asses. So-- you ask yourself the little questions about why you reacted the way you did, and then see, not about answering them, but just making a list about facts and events and incremental inquiries that you want to ask the G-Man."

Brennan responded carefully. "I think I can do the latter better than the former, but at least I can pinpoint my own reactions, if not the causes."

Jack thought about it. "I think that's okay. I mean, if you know some of the data, it's better than none, right?"

Brennan agreed. "Yes. It might not add up right away, but..."

Jack raised his beer again. "Cool. Now. I'm gonna say a couple of things that you can take as Jack Hodgins' pearls of wisdom. The prism, our experiences? You guys were trying to act as if neither of you had a past before you met, while chipping away at the other's. Ergo, the current mess. But... you two have already had to situations where you've messed up and forgiven each other. First, when he was dead, and next, when his brother conned you. One was a situation of him not telling. Another was a situation of your not asking. And yet-- you both forgave each other in the end, right?"

She nodded, reflecting again on how painful it was to think that she'd thought ill of Booth, and reminded all over again of how it was borne of her not following up Jared's assertions with his brother-- or Cam. Some scientist she was. "We did."

At that, Jack reached across his corner of the table and grabbed her good wrist lightly in his hand as he looked straight at her. "The last pearl of wisdom is this. I think you and Booth didn't trust yourselves enough to trust in the other one-- and you didn't trust yourself because you hadn't thought things through, or asked the questions you needed to ... point the light through the prism to get full refraction. So ... don't be like me and Angie and let things blow up because you're accusing the other one of not trusting you. It might be the opposite."

Brennan nodded gravely. "Thanks, Jack. That was just what I needed. You've given me a new ... prism to view things through."

Jack snorted appreciatively. "Nice one, Dr. B. Now... you want some of this kulfi I brought?"

They finished their kulfi, talking over things at the lab and other unimportant matters. Toward the end of the conversation, however, Jack tipped his head. "Did you know Angie, Booth and Boy Therapist had lunch at a cop bar not far from the Hoover today?"

Brennan shook her head. "I know she saw Booth, she told me that much. She didn't mention Sweets, however. And how do you know?"

Jack smiled slightly. "Old girlfriend of mine is the owner's daughter-- Angie doesn't know her, but she knows Angie. She called me, curious to know why my ex was in with two cops, both of whom hurled in a trash basket. Guess the G-Man hurled once while Angie was there, and both of them hurled again after she left."

"I can only guess," Brennan stated. "Angela did say he was extremely upset when she told him about the extent of my injuries. But I can't imagine what she would have told Booth, much less Sweets that would cause both of them to ... oh. I know." She pursed her lips, deciding how angry to be.

"What's up, doc?" Jack asked.

Brennan snorted, said "I know what that means. And I think I know why they vomited. I think Angela may have advised Booth of my reactions the night of his death." She trailed off, not wanting to burden Jack further. She'd not so much compartmentalized as completely suppressed the all-night emotional breakdown and her confused explanation to Angela. "She... she had no right to give out that information. And no right to involve Sweets, at least as to my emotions. Whether or not Booth consulted him is Booth's business, but Angela ... she should have asked me."

Jack nodded. "Don't get me wrong, I love Angie, but I think she's enjoying the matchmaker back and forth thing a bit much. I think you'd better just do what you can to precipitate a conversation with the G-Man."

Brennan shook her head again. "Well, I don't know if I should call him..." she said, thinking.

"No. You shouldn't," Jack said decisively. "But, you should make sure he calls you. Look-- I know you're going to kick his ass now that you've got a better perspective on things, and that's the only thing keeping me from going over there and popping him one for making Gimpy and Lefty even more accurate nicknames than Bones. Everything else notwithstanding, he overreacted more than you did, and he owes you more of an apology than the other way around. But..."

"I do owe him some apology." Brennan completed.

"Right. So... think of a way to make sure, free of Angela, that the G-Man gets the loud and clear message that he needs to get his ass over here so you can kick it. Is there one situation you can think of that would guarantee that he'd come running?"

Brennan considered. "I'm not sure. I'll have to think about it." She looked up then at the time and was shocked by how much time had passed. "Oh, Jack, it's nearly midnight," she said. "I'm so sorry I kept you so long."

Jack just smiled and gathered the take out containers, dropping them into her trash, then coming back to put the plates into the dishwasher. "Glad to be of help, Dr. B. You got me out of a sticky situation, only fair I return the favor."

Brennan smiled, but seriously. "I really appreciate it. And ... let's actually spend a few hours together that don't involve life altering moments, soon, please?"

He smiled, giving her a one-sided hug. "Cool. You, me, some beers, and no gimpy necks or messed up legs. It's all good. Just one request?"

"Shoot." At Jack's stare, she said "Oh, don't you start, too. I do know some vernacular phrases."

"If you're gonna kick the G-Man's ass someplace public, will you send me a text so I can get there in time?"

Brennan laughed all over again. "Done."

He saw himself to the door, and Brennan locked up, mulling things over again. By the time she fell asleep, Jack's suggestion about how to get Booth to see her directly had yielded an idea. She would try it tomorrow. The '_played_' would now be a player.

* * *

Brennan finished inspecting to work done by her interns on a CIA consult and made some observations on a Navy request that was primarily a pathology matter for Cam. At least Cam recognized the fractures were odd, and sought her advice. As Brennan worked, however, she could tell Cam was more than curious about why she'd been out. She supposed it was natural, but Brennan couldn't feel comfortable with Cam asking her personal questions. The combination of her having slept with Booth, the separate issue of their once acrimonious working relationship, and her opinion that Cam was inconsistent with office gossip and politics led her to conclude that guarding her own privact in response to any inquiry would be best. And she wasn't sure what Booth might have told Cam. As Brennan was straightening to look over the table at her colleague, however, Cam tipped her head and decided to pry. "I haven't seen Seeley around in a few days," she said. "How's he doing?"

Brennan put on the facial expression she used to scare grad students who were asking stupid questions into backing up and solving the questions themselves. "It's hard to say. I've been occupied with my injury," she replied. Cam blinked, looking perplexed, but then continued to dig.

"Ah," Cam replied. "He's just been rather terse when I've emailed him. I thought you might now."

Brennan's mouth twisted bitterly. Either Cam was digging on Booth's behalf, which was cowardly, or she was being nosy, in which case she wouldn't invade Booth's privacy by admitting the extent of the issues. Better to give a non-answer that was basically true. "No. He hasn't confided in me."

Standing, she brushed her one good hand on the front of the coat she'd awkwardly buttoned over her sling-immobilized arm, and groaned a bit as she stood. Her lower back and neck hurt from the over-compensatory postures and movements she'd had to take this afternoon while working.

"I think I'm going to call a taxi and go. All the sympathetic muscular tension is making the standing rather uncomfortable."

Cam did look sympathetic at that statement. "Maybe Angela should drive you?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, she said she had a lot of backlog, and I'm awkward but not incapable right now. I do appreciate your understanding while she's been assisting me at home." She gave Cam an attempt at a smile. Six months ago, even, Cam might not have displayed that much personal sympathy. She could at least acknowledge that.

"Well, the sooner you get better, the sooner the team gets back to catching the bad guys, Dr. Brennan." Cam hesitated for a moment, then spoke again,, a self-pitying look on her face. "Lord knows what I'd have to do if you quit. The board would have my ass out of here in a nanosecond."

Brennan looked at her quietly-- goodness knew Cam had that right. And it was nice to have it recognized. But then ... Cam was playing her. Right now. Playing on her sympathies, because she likely suspected something was wrong between she and Booth-- and she'd just chosen her job over her putative friend. She did not like being played-- and she wasn't at all happy now that she could tell when it was happening. HPLC displays, indeed.

Time to get a little of her own back.

"Don't worry. I haven't been good about finding a replacement for Zach to this point, I realize, but please be assured I have no plans to leave the lab until I find an adequate replacement to assist the team and lend whatever forensic assistance the various agencies we consult with may require. I intend to step up my efforts as soon as I return to work full time."

A complete wash of panic suffused Cam's expression as Brennan completed her statement, laying on the thick hint that she might leave the team. Brennan had put not the fear of God, but the fear of losing her job into Cam. And ... since she'd just chosen her job over her friend, maybe she'd be willing to use Booth to get Brennan to stay. Brennan felt only moderately bad that Booth would be caught in the middle. He should have come to see her already. If she could use Cam to precipitate the conversation, it was all well and good.

She excused herself, called a cab, and winked at Jack on her way past his station before saying goodbye to Angela. "See you, Lefty," he murmured under his breath.

Twenty minutes later, as she was just getting in, she got Angela's text.

"_Tell me you're playing cat and mouse_."

Oh, if only Angela knew. Playing each matchmaking or agenda-having friend or colleague against the middle. The center. The center she intended to make hold again.

"_Meow_," she responded. Then sat down to wait-- it wouldn't be long before he appeared.

She'd thought of it last night-- usually Booth was slow and deliberate in his approach to her, when he was trying to be kind and get her to see his view of things, rather than just take out his frustrations on her. But-- Seeley Booth came charging after her with everything in him when she explicitly told him she didn't need him or want him. After Kenton shot at her and she refused his protection, when those copycat killers were using her book, when she punched him after his funeral and then walked off on him-- he'd hustled so fast after her as she disclaimed any interest in him that she was sure. Cam's impression that she was leaving the lab would provoke Booth to act where he hadn't, thus far.

Meow, indeed.


	17. Chapter 17

She _can't_ leave—not now, not like this, not ever. That thought was on repeat all the way over to Bones' apartment. Booth wavered between calling, knocking on her door, or letting himself in with his key, unable to decide whether it would be better to make sure he got all the way inside her apartment before she attacked him. After all, she might be angry with him, but not so much that she wouldn't call an ambulance if she really kicked his ass, right? He hoped. But Cam was right. He needed to take it like a man, whatever she planned on dishing out. This sitting on his hands trying to decide what was the right thing to do, what was the best way to approach her was just way too much like all the time he'd wasted these past few years. If she was going to tell him to fuck himself, well, it would be worse than things already were, but not much. And the hint of possibility that they might work through it to something better than this … living Hell … was more than enough.

But—he was a man who liked to control things, liked to be able to predict the outcome of people's reactions. Fine—_needed_ to control things around him. And when he couldn't control them—make them come out the way he thought that they should? He lost control over himself. As he had here, when doing the job he was supposed to do, bring justice to victims and retribution to killers felt like the perverse opposite. The job that gave him order, structure, a way to define his actions as right and wrong, when so much of his life before this job, when he'd been on his own, was just so fucking _murky_. When his job turned grey, he freaked out, despite how much he accused Bones of seeing things too strictly in black and white. He _had_ to control things—to compensate for all the out of control shit he'd been through. But trying to control stuff he couldn't was about as rational as continuing to take blame for things that had happened that he'd had no hope of controlling in the first instance. He still blamed himself, though. What was it the GA guys called it? Adult Child? He'd certainly acted nothing like an adult. Serenity prayer too. Because he sure as hell hadn't displayed any courage. He'd slipped. Gotten complacent.

So now, he felt more than off kilter—he was spinning, uncentered, out of control—and he'd lost his ability to predict Bones' reactions, though of course, why would he in this circumstance? His poking and prodding of her never in his worst nightmares contemplated what happened here. _Just like his father_. Sweets was right in some ways, he _was_ going to fix it, he _had_ taken some small steps, but the loss of control in the first instance shook him deeply, and made plain that he'd been fooling himself to think he'd worked through all that stuff he didn't like thinking about, the stuff that made him the control freak he was. And yet he'd accused Bones of suppressing her feelings, and refusing to deal with difficult emotions. He'd been walking a knife edge while he pretended the whole time that it was a three foot wide concrete embankment.

Booth was a man of action, and yet, he'd sat on his hands for over two years because he was afraid Bones would reject him if he told her how he really felt. He never told her anything personal about his life before her, because he was afraid Bones would reject him. He never told her anything about his current life that didn't involve her, either. Why? Because she held such a large piece of his mental real estate already? No wonder she thought he wasn't interested.

He parked his car in the usual spot he tried to get—across the street so he could look up to see if her lights were on. Sometimes he hadn't had the guts to go up, to bother her multiple nights in a row, so he'd just sat there, reassured to know she was home, that she was there, that she was okay. Now he thought back to and regretted each time he did it, each time he ever stopped by, he should have just manned up, gone up, fessed up, and accepted the consequences—that he knew now that it might have gone well made it all the more bitter to contemplate. He'd held off based on assumptions, despite all Bones' insistence as to how bad they where.

So, manning up, Booth shut off the engine, noted his hands were shaking more than a bit, then got out and gathered those ragged bits of courage that might sustain him until he was in her door and things could start to happen, one way or the other.

Call? Or go up and knock? Or let himself in with his key? He hit the front entryway, still undecided, then took the back stairs to burn of a small bit more of nervous energy. Deciding as he stood in front of her door, he knocked.

Sooner than he would have expected, he saw her shadow against the light streaming out from under her door, then the metal snick of her using the peephole.

_Please_, he prayed.

She opened the door partly, looking seriously at him. Then, standing aside, she opened the door.

"Took you long enough," she said, her voice low and husky and spreading over the wounds of his self flagellation like balm. "Come on in."


	18. Chapter 18

Perhaps two minutes after responding to Angela's text, Brennan received another.

_G-Man on his way over. Good luck, Lefty_.

She smiled, then responded. _Thanks_. _Coffee_ _or something_ _next week, you, me, our mad-scientist babies_?

_You got it, babe_.

Well, she could speak to him about the '_babe_' later.

She put the phone aside, took another painkiller with a large glass of water, and sat in the chair nearest the door, wondering. Would he call to see if he could come up? Just come and knock? Let himself in with his key? She didn't like the last idea— as much as she wanted to try to work this out, she couldn't let him presume things would be fine—that he had an automatic right to come in to try to explain things to her.

She turned over in her head how he might be. Angry at the suggestion that she might leave? Attempting a poker face as he had so often before? A tentative start while he tested the waters, tried to gauge her emotions? For her part, she just hoped she could make her way through the things she had to say without losing courage, without crying. And despite it all, she found herself eager—no, needing—to see him. She'd hardly ever gone this long without seeing him in _years_. And over those years, and yes, she admitted now, even before, she'd come to not just rely upon but welcome that smile of his, his joking ways, those small touches and occasional hugs—but despite her feminist self, she'd come to welcome the chivalrous gestures too, from holding doors open and helping her on with her coat to getting annoyed or angry on her behalf when "Dr. Brennan" wasn't getting enough respect or space or whatever it was that she needed at a scene or from interactions with local officials. It was protective, yes, but it was protective of her skills, her expertise, her ability to start doing what she needed to do for their victims. It took her a while to admit that whatever alpha-male possessiveness he might also feel, he saw those gestures as a sign of respect—and she'd come to agree.

She shook her head, then adjusted her shirt nervously—she'd changed into more comfortable clothes, practically pyjamas when she got home, since her bra and regular clothes still were awkward to manage and wear with the sling and the left handed-ness of it all. She was starting to feel a little better, but she was still '_gimpy_,' as Jack said. As if it mattered how she looked when she was going to have a conversation like this that would inevitably leave her crying as she demanded an explanation and tried to make one of her own.

She heard a knock then, and got up as quickly as possible so as not to jostle herself. It wasn't his usual knock, strong and confident, however, so she checked the peephole just in case. He was looking down at his shoes, still in his suit from the day. Undoing the locks, she opened the door and said the first thing that came to mind, her voice suddenly thick from the sight of him again and how much she'd missed him, despite everything.

"Took you long enough. Come on in."

He looked at her, seemingly speechless, and yes, Angela was right. He looked terrible, though he was probably doing a good job at hiding it to most people, who probably thought he was just tired or angry about something. But that muscle at his jaw was jumping a mile a minute, he had shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched, his posture stooped. Even during the worst of his anger, she'd never seen him anything but standing up proudly, angrily, even self-righteously. But not—beaten looking. Defeated.

"Come on in," she said, repeating herself, and opening the door wider as she stood aside so he could come in. Hesitantly, he did so, then stood off to the side while she redid the locks on the door.

When she turned back to him, he was looking at her with a look she'd never seen on his face before. She realized with a start it was shame. And then something she never thought she'd see happened. Seeley Booth started to cry, large, silent tears sliding over his stricken expression as she stood there, arm in a sling and neck still slightly canted, though much better than it had been.

Brennan was startled, even alarmed. He should be upset, yes, but not so much that the mere sight of her made him cry. What had he been telling himself? Worse yet, what had everyone else been telling him, for him to be so worked up that they hadn't even had any conversation and he'd started to cry?

She'd hesitated long enough. Deciding, she walked over to him, put her one good arm around his waist, and pulled him in for a hug that was in no way a guy hug, but was certainly the one he'd said she could give him if he got scared. It was only time to return the favor.

After only a brief moment of hesitation, he slid his arms around her waist in turn, holding himself away from her arm.

"We'll figure it out, Booth," she said quietly, patting his back with her hand.

And then, for the second time, he startled her. He slid one arm up her back, pressed her head to his chest, and started to sob.

Her poor Booth.

Yes, that was the realization she needed. Her poor Booth. Hers. Even still, he was hers.


	19. Chapter 19

She looked back as he stood there, just taking her in. She was a sight for sore eyes, and not just because he'd been bawling like a baby every day for the last three days. God. What was he going to say? How was he going to start this? He was usually pretty damned smooth, but every word seemed stuck-- not even in his brain-- he just couldn't think of where to begin.

She seemed to know he was stuck, or something, because she stood back and pulled the door wider, repeating the invitation. He managed to get his feet to work this time, and entered, her apartment in its usual pristine condition, smelling like her, smelling like what he'd come to think smelled like _happy_, neck in neck with the smell of his son's hair when he hugged him hello or goodbye. Apple pie, or Bones' mac and cheese, or a burger and fries were distant seconds.

He watched as she turned after letting him in and reached up to close the locks on her door, as he'd so often chided her-- except she was doing it with her left hand, and her right arm was in a sling, and while he was no doctor he could tell her back was all messed up because Lord knew, the muscles all over his back got tired and achy when those injured discs of his started slipping again. Ange said she was better, but however she'd been before, Bones wasn't well, not by a long shot.

It was his fault, all his fault. The realization hammered him all over again. He'd taken Angela's assurances, not having seen Bones himself, and not really understanding what the injury meant, but as Bones turned around he could see she couldn't fully straighten her neck, and that she had those lines in her forehead she got when she was tired and sore from too much standing or other physical work-- and she didn't get those that often. Bones was physically stronger than any other woman he'd known. He'd always been both terrified for her safety and flattered that she didn't knock him on his ass for trying to protect her, and now, here she was, looking more hurt than he'd ever seen her, even that time after she got shot or after Kenton. Whether or not he'd done it on purpose, '_didn't realize his own strength_,' he'd hurt her. He should have realized. Should have controlled himself. Should have known that the way she turned pale, the way her breathing turned shallow meant more than that he'd just hurt her feelings. He'd had the signs right in front of him, all the good his First Responder and field trauma training did him, and he'd ignored them. He'd realized, then, that he'd hurt her, but his own anger and fear had clouded his view, his understanding of how much harm he'd actually done.

He still couldn't force any words out of his throat-- relief at seeing her at all shaded to shame and self-hatred all over again at seeing for himself that he'd hurt her. He'd done it. All him. And what she must think of him, waiting this long to come to apologize, beg, plead, whatever it took. He was only dimly aware of the fact that he was crying-- he was mostly trying to swallow the lump that felt like a dagger in his throat so he could force the first "I'm so, so, sorry" out of his mouth, when something shifted in her quiet regard, and she took a few steps toward him.

Bones didn't look mad. She looked serious. She didn't look like she was going to sock him or kick him in the nuts, either. But he still felt frozen in place as she approached him, then slipped her left arm around his waist, hugging him.

Hugging him? It was like the universe blinked for a moment. She was hurt, he was the one who had hurt her, and she was hugging him. And yet, he was powerless not to touch her, hug her back, hold her, when every damned time he'd ever hugged her before he always thought _she feels right in my arms,_ and now she was hugging him despite her arm in a sling that he'd caused. _She still feels right, and she's hugging you._

Carefully, so carefully to make sure he didn't jostle her bad arm, he slid his own arms around her, pulling her as close as he dared.

"We'll figure it out, Booth," she said quietly, patting his back with her hand, the warmth and solidity of her touch on him, and her natural smell overwhelming him. Clasping her to head to his chest, where he could feel her more closely, smell her hair, have her under his hands, all the guilt and desire and confusion and anger broke free again. She just tightened her one arm around him as he started to sob, unable to stop himself.

_Get a hold of yourself_, he managed to think after not too many minutes, as all the while Bones just patted his back and repeated herself. "We'll figure it out," she kept saying. But having Bones be the one he was leaning on, rather than Angela, made a difference, and he managed to stifle the urge to keep bawling his eyes out in relief and apology, hell, the whole gamut of human emotion, simply because she hadn't thrown him out yet. Bones was the only one who really could have comforted him, and while it was sick, since he owed her an apology rather than the other way around, it was nonetheless true. He already felt better, more capable of dealing with this just because he was near her-- because she let him be.

With a ragged sniff that was equal to any Parker ever made when he was smaller and at the end of screaming tantrum when he didn't get what he wanted at the toy store, Booth let go just a bit and she shifted on her feet as she stood. He stepped back then, realizing she couldn't be comfortable standing lopsided like that, and looked at her, amazed to see a few tears make their way down her own cheeks, though they didn't seem to be relate to any physical pain she might be in.

"Come on," Bones said, tugging him by the hand. "And don't look at me like that, okay? The doctors said I'll be fine, but right now, I need to sit," she continued, then walked over to her couch before sinking down into it with a sigh and putting her feet up on her coffee table. One of the lines in her forehead diminished a little, and Booth supposed that the sitting took some of the stress off her back that standing put on it. He sat slowly in the chair opposite her, so he'd have a clear look at her face, and reminded himself of what he'd decided ought to govern this whole conversation back in Sweets' office. _Get honest_. Hah, here he'd been thinking Sweets was there to try to bust the two of them us, and he'd ended up being a really good source of advice.

He looked at her another long moment, hands braced against his legs to keep them from shaking, then took a deep breath. "Temperance," he began. "I can't even start to say how sorry I am. I ..."

Just then, she held her hand up. "If you start calling me Temperance then I'm going to feel like you're about to announce that one of us has near-uncurable cancer, or that you're going off on some secret government mission and don't know when you'll return. So... unless that's the case, just stick with Bones." She had a slight smile on her face as she said it, and he couldn't help it-- he laughed at the wry look on her face.

"That's better," she said. "Now, listen. I was talking to Jack about this, and he said something really incisive. He said that we were trying to act as if neither of us had a past before we met, and because of that, we tended to respond to the same situations completely differently. So... I have a suggestion. You need to tell me things-- no more secrets, none of this being afraid of how I'll react, because honestly, Booth, very little you might have to say would surprise or bother me or be something I couldn't find a way to understand. And I'll ... try to invade your privacy a bit more, okay, since Jack says it seems like I'm not really interested when I actually am. And I'll tell you when you're full of shit but you have to promise to do the same. I'll ... also try to offer a bit more about what I'm thinking, but that's a bit harder."

He nodded. This was not the way he expected this conversation to start off-- essentially calmly, and not with her or him crying or him knocked out on the floor. "That's more than fair, Bones."

She looked at him keenly a bit longer before speaking again. She still looked serious, but it was clear she'd thought long and hard about this and was really trying to get her head wrapped around making the conversation work, be productive, rather than just be a screaming fight. Like she still wanted to try to be friends afterward-- and like she wasn't just going to wash her hands of him.

"All the whys, well, I'm not looking forward to discussing that Booth, let's be clear. I'm distinctly unhappy with you, and you have a lot to explain to me, but there are things I could have done in the past that might have made this all easier, or avoidable. And I need you to understand something-- just accept it as a given, because if you don't, we might as well just finish this conversation right here. I fully realize that if I were a little less tight-lipped or a bit more emotionally expressive, then some of this might have been a bit easier, but ... I'm not like you, Booth, and there are certain situations where I'm simply incapable of giving vent to how I feel about something in a limited way. There are just some things where my reaction is going to be either completely controlled, or completely out of control. If you ask me calmly why when you don't understand something about how I'm reacting, then I'll do my best to answer, but there are just some situations where I'm not going to react in a way you think is normal, and getting mad at me about it is not going to help things. I've always tried to give you honest answers, but if you ever try to push me around like that ever again, I swear, Booth, I'll rip out your intestines and choke you with them. Which should say something-- you know I dislike the occlusive nature of flesh."

He laughed again at the threat. That was his Bones-- his Bones, and she was letting part of _them_, their Booth-Bones dynamic, the sarcastic, open Bones she rarely showed around others, still play a part of this conversation. The burning hole in his chest stop burning, a little.

"I'll do my best to make it unnecessary," he said.

"Good," she said, her face shifting from the light smile she was wearing to one that was more serious in a matter of seconds. "Now, tell me, Booth. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?"

He tried to remind himself of what Cam said-- "Roll over and say '_Thank you, may I please have another_?'"

Gritting his teeth, he rolled over.


	20. Chapter 20

Booth looked something other than shocked for a moment when she demanded with uncharacteristic vulgarity what she'd been thinking. But she needed him to understand that everything else notwithstanding, she was still angry and still wanted him to give a full explanation. But he'd seemed, so far, to be following along with the ground rules she wanted to set for this discussion, and in joking a bit, she wanted to make clear that she had no intention of making him grovel just to toss him out at the end. She wasn't the vengeful type, and she didn't want him to grovel at all-- just allow her to understand what had prompted this all. If she never intended to see him again, then she wouldn't have even let him in the door. She wondered if he understood that. She shifted a little, stretching the muscles of her lower and mid back as she tried to find a more comfortable position, then watched her partner quietly as he sat watching her-- also quietly. Not unlike, and yet utterly different from all those times in the past when they'd just _looked_ at each other but never discussed out loud what those looks meant.

She wondered how much of his unease was due to her obvious physical discomfort, and how much was a reflection of his acknowledgment of the emotional assault he'd unleashed on her. A little of both, she supposed. He was clearly thinking through where to begin-- not avoiding her question, just trying to form a good first answer in his head. That he didn't seem to have one prepared heartened her. He'd never been glib, precisely, but often with their suspects his seemingly unplanned questions and nonverbal actions were the result of real calculation, encounters he'd mapped out in detail beforehand in his head-- it wasn't all gut instinct, and she'd come over the years to recognize that nanosecond's flash in his eyes as he put his game into play, started playing the suspects. That there was no flash here-- he hadn't prepared any speech-- left her with no doubts as to his sincerity. It led her to begin to believe that the reason he'd delayed all the time coming to her had more to do with that semi-paralysis she'd seen first at her doorway and then when she first hugged him. He'd worked himself into such a state over it all that his usual assuredness was all but gone, and whatever conversations he'd had with Sweets or Angela did nothing to bolster him enough to confront her. He might not be happy, later, to find out she'd manipulated him into appearing, but that could wait until they started to try to work things out.

Finally, Booth seemed to have decided where to begin. His jaw clenched. His brow furrowed. He took a deep, ragged breath. Then he spoke, looking her right in the eye.

"When you ... grow up with a drunk in the house," he began, sitting back in the chair but looking anything but relaxed, "you do what you can to keep things running smoothly, so you don't antagonize him, draw his attention, make him lash out again. You tell yourself that if you can behave and make everything nice, help everyone else cope with it too, so you're all doing the things you've decided are needed to keep everything even. So ... if he drinks, he's just happy because everyone's staying out of his way, or being quiet, or whatever it is that he wants that just keeps him from acting up or yelling or hitting."

He clenched and unclenched a fist, then spoke again, his eyes dark as he watched her. "Sometimes it works. And that's great, because it gives you something to go on. Often, it works a lot of the time. Which is even better, because it gives you some peace and quiet in the rest of your life, lets you have a little fun, try some new things that you enjoy. But ... it's still hard. You're always watching over your shoulder when he's around. Always trying to gauge what he's feeling, what he's going to do next. Trying to be ready, too, to get in the way if he does lash out. Because, here's the thing. You think you'd know that it's impossible to always predict or control how other people will act, no matter how well you think you know them, but... you don't You still think that if you just work hard enough, are good and strong and brave enough, then you'll manage to stop it all from going to hell. And you get stuck in that mindset, even though if you had some perspective on the whole thing, you'd know better. So ... when it goes wrong, and he lashes out, yells or hits someone, you feel like you screwed up, like you did something wrong. Because just when you think you've figured it out, and gotten everything going smooth for a while, it isn't."

He paused, looking away as he seemed to rifle through his memory for something, then focused his gaze on her again. "It makes you more than a bit of a control freak, y'know? Because you just think that the harder you work at it, the less likely you are to screw up the next time-- and you think there'll be a next time, because it actually seemed to work for a while. So you think it's not the overall approach that was wrong-- it's just that you need to fine tune it, or pay more attention or something in order to make everything work again."

Brennan looked at him and the shadows already crowding his face in so few minutes, and at the weight and the wealth of details conveyed in so comparatively few words. He seemed to be searching for what to say next, and recalling Angela's long-ago words about "_just a simple touch_," she wondered if there was a verbal equivalent. She decided to try.

"It sounds exhausting. And as though the relief of that need to keep watching-- the need to seek relief from the need to keep watching-- could be rather extreme and then jarring, rather like jumping off a swing."

Booth jerked at the analogy. "Yeah. That's it, Bones, exactly. You're flying, and it feels free, and you're looking up and around instead of over your shoulder, and you let go, and there's that moment where you feel like you're just going to float forever. And then bam, you hit the ground, and it hurts, and then it hurts even more because mixed in with the basic pain of it is the memory that you knew what it felt like to fly, for even a second, and now that's gone, too. If you hit the ground really hard, really feel like you've completely fucked up your attempt to control things, you can kind of lose your shit for a while, and you have to do whatever you can to get that control back. It can get kind of out of control, trying to get your control back."

He looked at her again, then rubbed the side of his face with his hand absently. Brennan had the feeling that Booth's last comment would lead toward a discussion of whatever about his gambling he'd decided to tell her, but he didn't seem quite ready to tackle that subject, as his next words proved.

"So-- long story short, you end up a control freak, and think that if you're just good enough, you can protect the people you care about, and when you fail, you blame yourself rather than accept the universal fact that you can't control everything, and that drunks and abusers are about as random and out of control as they come. But ... everywhere else except at home, all that control freak stuff actually makes you pretty successful, because you work your ass off and hold yourself to high expectations-- so with more normal people with more normal reactions, you can be pretty successful. And that's pretty gratifying, you know? Everyone else thinks you're great, and that you're helpful, and that you can fix practically anything, which makes you feel worlds better because really, you just want to make people happy, and if they are, then you know you're successful. There's a little bit of ego stroking in there, too, but mostly it's just an outgrowth of trying to keep things calm at home for the people you care about."

Brennan thought hard as Booth spoke, and wondered if this explanation was something he'd essentially understood beforehand, but not accepted, or if it was something he'd only begun to work out now as he sat here with her. She'd long thought his need to save and protect everyone was not only unreasonable but also self-destructive, as if his standing in front of Pam Nunan's bullet hadn't driven that point home as painfully as if she'd taken that bullet instead. He couldn't save everyone, but he certainly tried-- at his own expense. So she said so.

"I've said this before, but ... you can't protect everyone, Booth, and if you try to do it all the time, you're going to run out of energy to do it for the people closest to you when it really counts."

He nodded, gritting his teeth and looking away. "Or get too tired to pay attention to the fact that you're out of control, and to do something to stop that, and end up hurting someone, because you can't stop yourself, because it's ... it hurts so fucking much to lose control in the first place."

She nodded solemnly. "There's that."

He kept looking at her as if he were still waiting for her to yell at him or throw him out, and she wondered if she ought to say something more. His explanation had already done more to fill in the background she needed to begin to understand what had happened, and she could tell he was already exhausted by the little he'd told her, as well as whatever he'd put himself through these past few days. She was still angry, but found that the anger was no longer something that picked at her overall faith in him. She was disappointed, yes-- but if he could just keep being this up front, well-- he didn't have to explain himself all at once. She understood, all too well, the energy required to maintain a controlled public facade, and how when you were completely exhausted by the effort of doing it in the face of your own failure, you just ... crumbled. Or imploded. Or exploded, violently. In any event-- your response was destructive.

Before she could voice some of these thoughts, however, Booth started to speak again, his voice thick as he looked away from her.

"The other part of it is... you want to make sure the people you care about are safe and happy and all those things, because you love them. But even as you're afraid of the drunk, he's not always all bad, and you love those parts of him and want him to love you too. So when you're trying to keep things under control, it's not just because you want to protect the people you love, thought that's the biggest part of it all. But the rest of what you're trying to do is make him stop because he ... loves you enough to stop. That if you're good enough, he'll stop it because you deserve it, you're lovable enough. So when he doesn't, it means that you're not."

"Even though you know perfectly well that you can't control everything-- the feelings don't yield to logic," Brennan said softly.

"Right."

He looked back at her as he said it, rubbing his face again with his hands. She wondered if he was aware he was doing it, or if it was a nervous tic she'd never seen before simply because she'd never seen him so upset before.

"Anyway," he said. "You end up pretty fucked up under it all, and yet everyone thinks you're successful as hell, and then there's just all this _pressure_ to keep fulfilling this image that everyone else has of you, and you're ... terrified, absolutely completely fucking terrified ... that everyone will find out you're a fraud and a failure under it all, and that you're not good, or brave, or lovable or any of the things that you really, really, want them to think you are, that you really want to give them and have given back to you. So you have to word even harder, so they don't find out, don't suspect what a miserable failure you are underneath. Because ... you really want to be that person, to do all those things that they think you can do all the time. And when you crash, you crash hard, whether or not the crash is even your fault. If you're good at it, you can even believe it of yourself for a while. At least until the next time you lose control."

Booth paused then, clearly gathering his thoughts again, and manifesting clear signs of increasing distress. His posture was both defeated and rigid, as if he was braced for a blow. His expression was bleak and yet pled for understanding, or at least a reprieve while he tried to explain. He kept clenching and unclenching his jaw and fists, and she was pretty sure that if she moved quickly toward him, he'd either jump away or otherwise physically startle.

He was in as much pain as she was, Brennan now realized-- perhaps even more. While she'd been alarmed and concerned by the state he'd been in ever since she first saw him through her peephole, now she was even more so. The thought of letting him continue to feel so abased disgusted her, so she sat forward, slowly and carefully, making sure he didn't startle. She noted without any amusement at all that while she often compared him to an alpha-male predator, right now if she moved too quickly, he'd likely startle and shy like prey. The thought that she had that much power over him wasn't at all comforting-- she didn't want, even unwittingly, to be someone he felt he had to appease, no matter his own needs. He needed to not be afraid of her and her reactions to him.

_No time like the present_, Brennan thought to herself. Looking him straight in the eye, she leaned forward some more, so it was his space _she_ was invading, inviting him not to retreat, as she never had until just a few nights ago when he invaded her space. Her poor Booth.

Shifting so her left side was open and her right side faced the arm of her couch, she patted the cushion beside her. "Here. That chair's not as comfortable as the couch, you've said so yourself."

He tipped his head, a different version of the measuring look he would get when a suspect's acts truly confused him. _My poor Booth_, she thought all over again. He really didn't know whether or not she would forgive him.

"Come on," Brennan said, patting the cushion again. "The couch has better lumbar support. If you're going to keep me up all night talking my ear off, we may as well be comfortable."

A small smile quirked the edge of his mouth, as she hoped it would. He pushed himself out of her chair, and she took in again how physically weary he seemed. She wondered if he'd slept much at all. Certainly, the only reason she had was due to the painkillers-- she'd missed Booth too much and was thinking over so intently what she needed to do for her to be able to sleep otherwise. He reached the open side she'd left, seating himself gingerly next to her, leaving more distance than he'd ever left between them in years.

Well, that wouldn't do. Before he could finish settling himself into the sofa, she reached over and grabbed his hand in her left, tugging him toward her. "Too late to back off now, Booth," she said, meaning it on so many levels that even her analytical mind couldn't parse out all the layers. Forget like an onion-- it was like an epidermis, millions of skin cells making the whole.

Responding to her clear invitation, Booth scooted somewhat closer to her, then slung his feet up on her coffee table, his hand still in hers. Black socks, she nodded, as he settled himself onto the couch. Well, that wasn't good, Brennan thought. One thing at a time, however.

He'd closed the distance a little, but still seemed hesitant. Well, it was like Hodgins said-- sometimes you have to direct the light into the prism in order to get the result you need. She tilted the light source then through the prismatic experiences he'd just detailed to her, scooting close enough for her hip, thigh, and foot to touch in the straight lines they usually adopted when they were done with a case file, or he brought her some 80s movie he'd rented that she'd never seen.

When he settled, only then did she engage in one of Angela's "just a simple touch."

Laying her head on his shoulder, she squeezed his hand, this time supporting him rather than all the times he'd done so for her before. They both let out a deep sigh as her head came to rest against him, and he shifted just slightly so her head rested more securely on this upper arm and chest-- though he didn't yet dare to sling his arm over her shoulder. Long moments of silence filled the room then, almost like the times before when both of them were content to say nothing much, if anything at all.

"I missed you, Booth," Brennan sighed quietly.

"Me too, Bones. Me too." At her words, he was emboldened again, and gently, he pulled her forward enough to actually sling his arm over her shoulders, until she was tucked securely against him. She let out another, longer sigh, and he spoke again.

"Me too, Bones. More than anything."

* * *

_**For those who have asked, yes—I have some personal and professional experience with people coming from abusive and/or addictive family situations. The concepts I have Booth discussing here are all part of an analytical approach to the psychological damage caused to people growing up in these situations called the "Adult Child." I think the Booth we see in "Con Man" and now "Fire in the Ice" is a real Adult Child-- which makes he and Brennan similar in many, many ways, since neither had much of a childhood.  
**_


	21. Chapter 21

Booth practically jumped when Bones patted the seat on the couch next to her, motioning for him to join her. And then again when she reached for her hand, made to scoot closer to him, leant her head on his shoulder. He heard himself let out a deep sigh, and her too-- his own sounding like a tired old dog who'd heaved himself up on the couch to finally sit next to his person, put his head in their lap. His Bones, his favorite person.

In the past, the way their bodies aligned, the way there were often those small contacts while they were drinking beers at the end of the night or watching a movie-- they weren't intentional, they just happened. Even if for whatever reason they hadn't started out watching a movie on the same end of the couch, one or the other of them always ended up near the other, in contact enough to share the bowl of popcorn, the box of candy she'd never eat on her own. He considered it his mission in life to make Bones eat more junk food. All that salad just wasn't good for you.

He shifted a little so she could lean on him a little more, and she did, her weight slight but warm, and Bones, and leaning on him. All things he'd really worried that might never happen again. They sat there long moments, as he smelled her hair, felt her warmth, felt her hand in his. Trusting again.

"I missed you, Booth," Bones sighed quietly.

That hole where his heart was closed up a little more.

"Me too, Bones. Me too."

Tentatively, as gently as possible, he pulled her forward enough to actually sling his arm over her shoulders, until she was tucked securely against him. She let out another, longer sigh, and he spoke again, from the heart that was slowly but surely reforming itself from inside him.

"Me too, Bones. More than anything."

She squeezed his hand slightly, and continued to lean on him, seemingly content to lean on him a bit more. She hadn't tossed him out, hadn't yelled at him, hadn't told him she thought he was a fraud or a failure, like he admitted he sometimes felt like he was. And as if his thoughts conjured it, she said it.

"I don't think you're a fraud or a failure, Booth. Precisely the opposite-- but ... just human. There's a Chinese proverb, it sounds nicer in the Cantonese, but it says "_Failure is not falling down but refusing to get up_."

He snorted. "Bill Lee, a pitcher for the Red Sox, said something like that once, except he was talking about sliding into bases—I don't think he meant it to be deep.."

"Things are deep or cliched sometimes because they're true," she said, quietly, then didn't speak again, seemingly content to let things rest for the moment. Which was good-- because he was exhausted just by that short-in-time, long-on-effort bit of self-revelation.

As he sat there, though, he realized something. He'd compared being around Bones, needing to be around Bones, to an addiction-- Sweets too. But he'd said it better than Booth initially thought of it, made it sound like something not as destructive as all the stuff that came before-- '_replace our antisocial behaviors with more socially acceptable coping mechanisms_' or something like that. Now that he thought of it more, though, the protecting Bones thing wasn't destructive at all, most of the time. Not like the gambling-- Bones didn't empty his bank account or leave him having to find a new place to live because his landlord booted him from his old place for not playing the rent.

It was more like ... food. He needed food to get through the day-- fuel to keep going, and weak if you didn't eat. He'd felt stronger working with Bones, and not just because she let him get all alpha-male when it was needed. Symbiotic. He'd said that once to describe them, but it was more true than he'd thought-- but he wondered what kind of symbionts they were. The kind that mutually benefitted from each other, or the kind where one was a parasite? He never should have let Parker watch all that Shark Week stuff last weekend-- he'd picked up stuff that almost made him sound like a squint. He didn't like the thought of being a parasite, not at all.

She kept him honest, just like those parishioners said when they were investigating that minister's death. And like they said at GA-- _get honest_. Bones kept him honest, and it was more than time to be honest about the rest of it to her. He'd made the error of thinking that he wasn't lying to her just because he didn't tell her something, but that was bullshit. The Church called it a sin of omission, and boy, had he ever omitted.

But thinking about it now with her sitting next to him, when before it was so painful to start saying it because he was watching her, hoping to God she was listening, taking it in, not reacting with fright or anger or disgust, it didn't seem quite so hard, quite so painful, because every breath expanding her ribcage against his was like ... what? Filling in the whole he'd punched in his wall with plaster? You had to go slow, smooth each layer of plaster down carefully so you filled in all the cracks, made the wall as strong as it was before the hole or the crack appeared. You replaced back in what was empty, taking your time so it dried right and you could make sure you were doing a good job.

So he started talking again. He spoke slowly and carefully, pausing every so often to think over the things he'd already said, to see if he'd left any gaps or failed to fill any cracks before starting inon the next layer-- the next layer of words and explanation, not excuses, just explanation. He smoothed on, laid out for her evaluation, too, each layer of memory and experience, laid one on top of the other, until his voice cracked with dryness, not just emotion-- after he talked about high school, throwing his first punch at his dad, his first deployment and the things he and his buddies went through, how he'd gotten those breaks on his feet she'd seen all those years ago. Was it really only three? he felt like he'd known her forever-- and she smoothed her hand over his thigh, rubbing it gently when he stopped and swallowed. Patting his leg, she pushed up and leant into his leg as she walked off to the kitchen.

"I'm going to make tea," she called. "You want anything?"

He looked at his watch. It was only nine o'clock, and he'd only been here just under four hours. It seemed like so much longer than that. Time did that-- stretched and contracted around Bones, the center of the universe. His, at least.

"Decaf?" he said, tentatively, then got up to follow her into the kitchen. If he had regular coffee, well-- not that he cared about staying up all night, he just didn't need to feel even more nerved up than he already was.

"I think there's some in the freezer," she said, her back turned to him as she rummaged through the teas she'd left out on her counter, then picked up her kettle in her left hand, plonking it into the sink and turning the faucet on. He was tempted to take over from her, but held himself back since she seemed to be ignoring her infirmity as much as possible. Ignoring the rather obvious growls his stomach was making -- _hunh, first time he'd been hungry in days_-- he concentrated instead on making the decaf, filling the pot halfway with water once she was done with the tap. When the water started guzzling through the grounds into the pot, he pulled down mugs for both of them, figuring he could do at least that much.

When he turned back, Bones was tossing tupperware containers full of leftovers onto the counter-- as she often did when neither quite felt like ordering out. "There's Indian-- some channa masala, some rice, chicken korma-- or vegetarian chili and Fritos. There's some sour cream and grated cheese in the fridge. And there's tater tots in the freezer, as well as some ice cream."

"Tater tots?" he asked, incredulous.

Bones shrugged. "I like them with french dressing when I'm craving carbohydrates," she said. "Sometimes just mayonaise."

"Yuck," he said without thinking. "I'll take the Indian unless you really want it."

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine with the chili. Plus, it's full of healthful things like legumes and vegetables-- it would probably give you a heart attack." She said it with a smirk at the edge of her mouth, and he heaved an inward sigh that she was joking with him.

"Right. Because Fritos for scooping it up doesn't cancel that out all the way."

Bones snorted, then said "Of course not. Just like Angela and her diet cokes with her Big Macs."

Because two hands were just easier, he took all the tops off all the containers, then pulled down some plates while she hauled out utensils and started plopping food onto the plates, seemingly paying no heed to the fact that it was more sloppy than she would usually be. Her cell rang then, so Booth said "I'll finish," as she looked around to find it.

Nodding, she fumbled the phone up to her ear with a "Hi, Ange."

Booth continued to put food onto the plates, then set them in the microwave, rooting out her Fritos and then pouring her water over her tea as she listened to whatever Angela had to say.

Smiling slyly at something, Bones finally cut Angela off. "No, I'll explain to you later-- or, ask Jack. He can probably tell you." Listening further, she quirked her mouth at something else, then said "No, Booth's over here now. We're having a late supper." She paused again, then made a truly annoyed face. "Angela, stop. I'm fine, Booth's fine, and neither one of us has yet to use up D.C.'s supply of tissues. But ... I am rather tired, and I don't think I'm going to go in after all in the morning. If anyone needs something, they can run the x-rays over or email me or call, but I don't know that I'm up for standing for more than twenty minutes or so at a go quite yet." Her mouth made another moue, and then she said with some finality "You're mother-henning me. I appreciate it, really, but my dinner is getting cold. I promise I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

She hung up at last, then made a face at the phone. Booth debated whether to say something, including the fact that she'd just told the first white lie he'd ever heard her say, when the microwave beeped, which gave him something to occupy his thoughts. He still hadn't gathered the courage to ask if she was really thinking of going, and didn't think that he would until he was done telling her whatever she wanted to hear and done listing to whatever she thought he needed to know. He could hardly say he deserved to be in her confidence right now, even as she seemed-- they seemed-- to be okay for the moment.

Booth brought the plates over to the table, turning to find Bones making her way over with her teacup and a bag of Fritos shoved unceremoniously into her sling along with the containers of sour cream and shredded cheese. He was about to say he could have gotten those things for her, and it must have shown in his face-- she arched an eyebrow at him and said "I'm practicing my marsupial superpowers."

He burst out laughing, unable to help himself. "Super Koala, hunh Bones?"

Bones shook her head. "No. Mega Kanga, it's a much better name, I think." She reached the table, set down her cup, and lowered her lopsided way into her chair, plopping her chips and other chilli accoutrements on the table. "Go get me a water while you're getting your coffee," she said then, and started working at dressing her supper. When he came back, she'd done a good job at getting everything on there that she wanted, and he smacked himself for ever thinking there were things Bones couldn't adapt to.

He set to his own food, making short work of it since it was the first time he hadn't been at least somewhat nauseous. She would flick him glances every once in a while, but seemed content to work on her chili without saying anything much except "I wish I hadn't used up all the scallions the other night." He finished before she did, and he looked forlornly at his empty plate. Bones laughed at him outright. "There's Rocky Road in the freezer. Help yourself."

He hopped up with a grin and shoved his plate and fork in the dishwasher, then served himself some dessert and more coffee as she mashed corn chips into her chili. "You're supposed to scoop it with the Fritos, Bones, not mash it in and eat it all with a spoon."

Bones just looked at him. "Utensils are what separate us from 98% of all other mammals. With the exception of higher primates and elephants, humans are the only animals who use manual tools. Plus, with the exception of french fries, I don't like to eat with my hands."

"Why is that?" Booth asked. It was true-- she even used forks and knives with pizza and sandwiches. Pretty much the only things she ate with her hands were doughnuts, muffins, and bagels. And french fries, of course.

She thought for a moment, then answered solemnly. "One of my least favorite foster families – hah, I hated them all-- ate almost everything with their hands. Corn on the cob, chicken legs, spareribs, all of that. There were hardly ever any real vegetables, clean plates or utensils either. They were complete slobs-- it was disgusting, they used paper plates and plastic utensils all the time and the pots and pans were just this side of food poisoning, much less clean, or any other part of the house. I lived with them long enough to become a complete clean freak," she said, smiling slightly as she surveyed her apartment, "and I have an admittedly extreme antipathy to eating almost anything with my hands." She shrugged. "Not very rational, and it doesn't really bother me much when other people eat with their hands, but there it is. Clean plates and utensils are stable. Paper plates and plastic utensils are not."

"You don't mind eating mee krob out of the box with your chopsticks." He decided not to press on the fact that she rarely spoke about her foster families—he needed to stop asked her questions until he'd evened things up between them.

She snorted. "Chopsticks are utensils. And it would be wasteful of water to dirty a dish when the paper container it already comes in is sufficient to serve as a means of serving the food."

She stood, picking up her fixings and stuffing them back into her sling, then piled her empty teacup onto her plate before heading back to her kitchen. Booth scrabbled his spoon in the bowl to get up the last bits of nuts and marshmallows, then followed her. Looking at the clock, he saw it was 9:30-- she looked bushed, though, even though it was pretty early. He loaded the rest of their things into the dishwasher, then turned to look at her. "You ... uh ... look kind of tired. I should hit the road, you can get some sleep."

She looked at him for a long, silent moment, then said "Are you going to get any sleep if you go home? Because you don't look like you've been sleeping much at all, and frankly neither have I. But I do need a bath and some sleep-- you can have the couch if you like."

This time, he was the one who hugged her, stepping in cautiously to put one arm at the back of her shoulders, one again at the back of her neck as he snugged her to his chest. Her good hand again made its way around his waist, pulling him closer than he would have dared.

"I'd like that," he said. To sleep on the couch of his favorite person-- he wanted that more than anything right now, he thought to himself. "I'd like that a lot."


	22. Chapter 22

Brennan settled into her steaming hot tub, stifling a groan. She really was feeling much better, and since the painkillers actually worked for a bit, rather than just dulling the edge of the pain, but she'd over-exerted herself today at work, not to mention the effort involved in prompting Booth's arrival at her apartment. She would have to tell him that she had no intention of leaving, while somehow explaining that she understood a bit better now that they'd spoken why he'd delayed coming to see her. She hoped he'd agree that it was a necessary deception.

There was a lot to absorb, there, in what Booth told her. She herself had felt that she had no control over her fate once her parents and Russ left her, but she'd ended up responding entirely differently. She had no one else, literally, to take care of or to have take care of her. She'd been her only resource-- exclusively relied upon herself for whatever measure of quiet, or safety, or solace she might have after she'd been ... abandoned. Where Booth had responded to his lack of control over his life by trying to help his mother and brother, his Army friends, the worthy people he'd known and surrounded himself with, well ... she hadn't had that choice.

She went where the system placed her, and the easiest way to get out of a bad placement was to act out and make them kick you out, since the system was unwilling to let you tell them that where they'd placed you was if not abusive, then just ... soul-crushing, if she believed in such things. When she'd managed to convince them that it was in everyone's best interest for her to start college a year early, when she'd finally been able to take some control of her own life... well, now that she thought of it, she went more than a bit overboard in the opposite direction. Where Booth reached out, tried to make things better because some of his efforts paid off, she withdrew, because it seemed like nothing she did to try to fix things ever worked.

It wasn't just that she was worried about people abandoning her once she cared about them-- it was also that she had absolutely no control over most aspects of her own life once she went into foster care except her thoughts, her academic achievements. The clothes on her back, the food on the table, the roof over her head-- those all depended on whomever the system foisted her off on, and face it, the foster parents she'd had were often the dregs of humanity. Dregs who put on a good front when the social workers came to do home visits and never believed her. They just chalked it up to teenage resentment. In her mind, though, she could be free-- there, she didn't have to depend on anyone outside herself to feel like she was worth something-- she _knew_ she was smart, if she was nothing else. It didn't matter to her teachers that she was a foster geek or wore hand-me-down clothes, or had no one to check in on her, call out Marco, waiting for her to respond. The teachers were eager to hear from her, answered her questions, let her stay after school to work in their office or class room until they had to leave to go home to their own families.

So when she went off to college, and was able to control her own schedule, her own living conditions, well-- anyone who tried to infringe on that hard-won independence when she was the only person who would take care of her-- she didn't handle it well. A threat to her independence was what? A threat to her? An overture to abuse, mental or emotional? An attempt to make her conform to some behavior they thought was more appropriate way than whatever manner she chose for interacting with the world? An attempt to control her, certainly, when she finally was starting to feel like she'd regained some.

Her social awkwardness wasn't a sham, in most ways. And certainly, her pop culture knowledge disappeared when she started disappearing into her various rooms at her various foster houses to study, to be alone with her mind, the only thing she had any control over.-- and yes, she was bad at reading non-verbal cues. But there was a reason for that, and for why she engaged in what Booth sometimes called painfully blunt honesty. People didn't say what they meant, one thing she'd learned all too clearly. People lied. Her parents lied, by leaving her-- undoing the compact of parent and child to see them through to adulthood. Russ lied when he said they'd be fine, just the two of them, after her parents left. He proved he was when she woke up and he was gone. Each foster family lied when they said she was welcome. Each social worker lied when they said she'd get over it.

She never did. She just ignored it-- pushed the feelings to the side, because there wasn't anything she could do about them-- nothing would fix them. They were irrevocable parts of who she was, and she couldn't control the fact that they haunted her. So she suppressed them, and worked to control the rest of her life, by engaging herself in an academic and intellectual career into which she could throw herself, mind and body. Suppressed feelings, too. The best thing she could do was guard against people telling her lies, and to promise herself not to lie to anyone else. To offer truth, too, to the people who wanted it. But Hodgins was right. She didn't ask a lot of personal questions, because anytime she'd offered anything personal in the past, it resulted in either mockery or indifference. Not that she'd been really mocked, or had people be indifferent to her since she'd met Angela, and then since she began at the lab, and then ... Booth, but ... old habits died hard.

She sloshed in the tub a bit more, then pushed herself up to refill it with more hot water. She'd wondered if she'd done the right thing when she invited Booth to sleep on the couch-- it wasn't that she didn't think he now had whatever had caused him to react so extremely back under control. But she wondered a bit at how he would be able to control his own response to her physical discomfort.

The bruises were fading. She did have more range of motion, and the shooting pain was less frequent, but she was still tight, and it would be a matter of weeks and perhaps some massage and physical therapy before it fully resolved. She was annoyed by it more than anything else at this point, but feeling Booth's eyes on her as she made her awkward way around her own apartment made her aware of two things. First, he was full of incredible guilt, bordering on self-hate, at the sight of her discomfort-- when she didn't want to be an object of pity, though she knew what Booth felt wasn't that, and second, that he'd been physically restraining himself from taking over from her whenever something proved difficult. The first was a problem-- the second was not. He needed to really learn to let her ask for help-- though of course, she needed to stop refusing to ask for any help at all, either. She did hope, though, that she didn't wake up in the night with a shooting pain or two requiring more time in the tub or with the the heating pad, the light on under her door or in the bathroom to wake or disturb him. At least she'd had the painkillers to knock her out. He hadn't had anything. But she'd asked him to stay, deciding that he needed the reassurance of being here and acknowledging, too, how much she'd missed him.

Brennan sat up at last, rolling her head on her neck to test the level of relaxation in the musculature, and decided she'd had enough for the night. Pushing out of the tub, she pulled over a towel and dried herself, then regarded her reflection in the mirror. She looked less tired than Booth, but nonetheless tired. She was glad, for once, that she'd decided to stay home from work-- listening to people talk about how they felt, and trying to not even analyze it as they spoke wasn't natural for her. It was almost as hard as volunteering any information of her own.

She made a rueful face at herself in the mirror, pulled on the oversized men's button-down shirt she'd been wearing at night, then looked at herself again. The shirt was long enough-- she wouldn't need pyjama pants, and the wrestling with clothes thing was too tiring tonight. She took one more painkiller just to be sure she slept, then made her way to the bedroom. It was quiet in the living room, the TV on low and no lights on-- as if he were hoping the SportsCenter Lullaby would put him to sleep. She'd heard him rummaging in the hallway linen closet, he knew where all those things were, so she assumed he was all set for blankets.

Whatever worked, whatever made him feel better.

"Goodnight, Booth," she called over her shoulder.

"'Night, Bones," he replied, a solemn tone in his voice.

She hoped he would have a good night. A good night's sleep, and maybe a better tomorrow for both of them. She resisted the urge to go back into the living room to assure herself of the fear she'd been stifling all evening-- her belief, still that she was the weak one, that once this was over, he would still want to work with her. She told herself that she was being silly, because he wouldn't be here otherwise. But, well, feelings weren't logical.

Grumbling to herself, she settled into bed, stifling another groan, this of sheer tiredness, as she arranged her pillows under her and closed her eyes, concentrating on sleep.

* * *

**_  
_**

**_Yes, there's a lot of thought process—and conversation—these past chapters. There will be several more. And yes, there will be a chance for Brennan to get some of her own back, physically. Just … perhaps not for the reasons you think. And yes, there will be a B/B at the end, and some B/B smut of some kinds—maybe both. After all, I've made you read through all this serious stuff... there's got to be some reward at the end!  
_**


	23. Chapter 23

When his eyes were so bleary he could no longer focus on the stats crawling under the game replays, Booth clicked off Bones' TV. Suit pants, not very comfortable for sleeping in, he groused to himself, but he'd already tossed his belt, jacket and tie. He could toss his dress shirt, too, he supposed, at least he had an undershirt unlike half his jockeys who didn't understand what wearing a suit meant. Ugh-- call him metro, sure, but it was just gross when someone with bear-hair shadowed the front of his dress shirt because he was too much of a slob to buy and keep clean undershirts around.

He settled into her couch, stretching his legs up over the arm and sighing as the smell of her fabric softener on the blanket surrounded him. He hadn't gone to bed this early in ... a while, but he also hadn't been sleeping at all to speak of. Bones had been right. If he'd gone home, he'd have just replayed everything in his head. At least if he was still here it was because she wanted him here-- even if it was out of pity. He'd take pity, as long as it came from Bones.

He slept and dreamed, mostly of just sitting next to Bones as he had earlier, and her falling asleep against him, making contented little noises. He knew he was dreaming, and he snorted at the dream's content. _First non-sexual dream you've had of her in a while that didn't involve her getting kidnapped or killed because you failed to protect her-- nope, instead, you're so worn out that all you can dream about is snuggling with her on her couch_. He'd take snuggling, he told his dream-brain.

At some point, it was still dark, there was a quiet sound of a door opening and shutting-- her bedroom and then into her bathroom, he supposed. He started to drift off again when he heard the sound of more hot water running, and what sounded like a stifled groan. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked for his watch. One in the morning, and she was taking a bath? Was she that uncomfortable? He swallowed some bile, then heaved himself off the couch. He'd made this bed, he'd better damned well lie in it.

He knew from experience that the tub was tucked out of view behind the door, so he could stick his head through a crack to ask if she needed anything without actually having to avert his eyes. Walking stiffly to the door-- _not sleeping for days and not eating well and then working out on top of it all does not make for happy muscles and bones, there, Seeley boy-- _he opened the door just a mite and spoke.

"Bones? You need anything?"

There was a brief moment of silence before she said "Not really. Sorry I woke you." She still sounded tired.

"No worries. I'm a light sleeper." True enough. He didn't need to tell her that ten years out of the Army he still woke to every creak in the house, every car's backfire out on the street, any sound of anyone moving around in the house, even welcome visitors.

"Well, still," she said.

"Okay ... you just holler if you need something though, okay?"

"I will," she assured him, and she actually sounded like she meant it, when she so often just said it to stop him nagging at her.

He closed the door, went back out to the living room, rubbing his head as he blinked away the rest of his sleep. Well, he wasn't going to fall asleep again until she went back to bed-- he'd be fretting too much in the meantime. Fretting, hah. Like a grandma-- but that's what it was.

He drank a glass of water, and for lack of something else to do, emptied the dishwasher. That done, he sat on her couch, fidgeting, clicking the sports channel back on and leaving it mute as he watched more replays and stats scroll by. He'd been watching for 20 minutes, maybe more, when he heard more sloshing and her running more water into the tub. Another fifteen minutes passed, and he started to worry a bit. She was sore enough to need a bath for more than a half hour, when she'd had one less than four hours before? Damnit, he thought to himself. Seeley, you're a bullying bastard.

There was some more sloshing hard on the end of that self-hating thought, so he cast his gaze back on the TV screen, relieved that she at least seemed to be getting out, and not trying to drown or turn into a prune. He was jolted, however, by a small banging noise and a loud cry. He was up in a flash and at the door, opening it a hair yet again.

"Bones?" he asked, holding himself back from just bursting in there.

"Banged ... my elbow," she said, clearly gritting her teeth at some pain.

"Can I do anything?" he asked, concerned at what he could now tell were slight panting breaths.

She gritted a "no," out then said nothing further, though he could still hear the ragged breaths of someone who'd done more than just bump their funny bone.

"Bones, please?" he asked. "It's got to hurt like hell. Let me, okay?" Of course, he was just asking about the particular need right then, but the parallel to their larger situation wasn't far behind in his awareness.

"Just ... toss me the towel on the back of the door?" she said, sounding a little weak.

"Okay," he said, ducking in and looking in the opposite direction as he came in and pulled the towel off the door, then wondered too late how he was going to help her and still preserve her modesty.

"You can look ... ow, fuck, not like I haven't already ... ow ... seen you naked."

He backed up nonetheless, holding the towel out behind him, until he felt her take the towel from his hand. He hardly felt like now was the time to invade her personal space more than necessary to help her, or that he had any right to look at her naked.

"Would you get me that shirt, too?" she said, her voice still rough with pain, and looking around, he saw there was an oversized man's shirt over the lid of the hamper. He went over to pick it up, then started to back towards her again.

"Stop. You're going to trip on something and crack your head on the sink or the toilet," she said.

Sheepishly, he turned around, and she'd managed to wrap the towel around herself as she sat on the wide ledge of her almost swimming-pool-like tub. The towel left naked her shoulders and upper chest. Even with the damp strands of her bath-wettened hair now straggling down, the '_very long bruises_' Angela said his fingers had left were entirely visible. Entirely dark, too. It was only the fact that she was clutching her right elbow, her neck hunched inward again and her face showing real pain that kept him from panicking just at the bruises. Extending her the shirt, she took it with her left hand and laid it over her lap, a wince scrunching her face as she let go of her right arm.

The air in the bathroom was warm, moist, and fragrant, the heat curling the tendrils that escaped Bones' ponytail and framing her face. Her pain-pinched face. That got him back into action.

"Here," he said, coming forward to take the shirt, slip his arm around her waist on her good side, then help her up to her feet as he stood behind her. "You hold on to your towel and give me the shirt and I'll get it on your bad arm, okay?"

She nodded, her whole posture still canted, and shifted her grip as he came back in front of her, then bunched the sleeve of her shirt over her hand, making sure to avoid touching it as much as possible.

"Okay," he said, trying to sound confident. "On we go." He took hold of her right hand gently, pulled it just far enough away from her body to allow him the room to pull the sleeve up and over her arm, until the fabric was arranged, more or less properly, over her shoulder. Standing behind her, he pulled the shirt the rest of the way across her shoulders and back, leaving the sleeve to dangle alongside her left arm.

It was an intimate act, it struck him then, as he watched her drop the towel and shrug back her left hand to find the sleeve, then groaned as she jarred her right arm with the movement.

"Here," he said, taking the sleeve in hand and holding it out in what he hoped would be easier reach. She managed it that time, kicking the towel away from her where it pooled at her feet as she started to fumble her buttons together, using her right hand to hold the placket in place-- but then hissed at only the second attempt.

"Okay, Bones," he said, "I get it, no Puritan modesty. Let's get you back to bed, okay?"

She turned to look at him, holding the placket of the shirt closed, her blue eyes cloudy and her forehead scrunched in pain. "There's some valium in the cabinet there-- I could use one and a glass of water."

"Okay," he said, opening the medicine chest to find the prescription muscle relaxant, then heading back to the kitchen as she made her slow way back into her room. He'd filled a glass and was already back as she was just sitting on the side of the bed, looking forlornly at the mess of pillows and covers and sheets. Silently, he set the glass and pill down on her side table, then pulled the pillows off the bed, motioning for her to stand while he straightened the bed clothing. He heard her replace the glass on the stand as he worked, peeling everything back as he found that her bedclothes were almost impossibly tangled.

"No wonder you got all twingy, there, Bones," he said, trying to make light. "Your sheets were trying to strangle you."

"I turn a lot in my sleep," she said quietly. "Makes for a knot of linens in the morning."

"Well," Booth said, as he re-straightened the layers and brought them back up to the top, then pulled them all back once he'd remade the whole thing, "I'm an expert at bed making. You want hospital corners and sheets drawn so tight you could bounce a cannonball off them? I'm your man."

"I don't know what that means," she said with confusion, and when he turned back to her, he saw that same puzzled look on her face that he'd missed so damned much.

"It means that drill sergeants like to terrorize their recruits in every possible way, and one of them is a messily-made bed. You don't want a hundred pushups before breakfast? You make a tight bed."

"Oh," she said, blinking. Booth turned to look at all the pillows he'd tossed on the floor.

"Where do you want these?" he asked, picking them up and starting to fluff them. Bones had nice sheets,really soft, and they smelled like her fabric softener plus her.

"I don't know," she replied. "I'm supposed to lie on my back but it doesn't really work. You can leave them there, I guess, I'm going to try my side." She shifted her feet under her, wincing again, and he ventured a comment. "Your lower back all tight on top of everything, too?"

She nodded solemnly, clutching the plackets of the shirt closed at her breasts. For someone who claimed not to be body-shy, she seemed to be now. Well, that made two of them shy of her body right about now. She spoke, though, drawing Booth's attention back to the present.

"I didn't think it would be quite so sympathetically spasmodic," she said, "but I think I stood too much today and it's rather uncomfortable."

He took two steps away from the bed, then turned her gently toward it. "Well, you climb in and if you want I can bring you a heating pad or something?"

"I shorted mine out," she said sheepishly. "I meant to ask Ange to pick up another, but I forgot." She sat at the edge of the bed, then, not meeting his eyes, and shifted as he averted his from the expanse of creamy toned legs she exposed as she twisted onto her left side. She let out a whimper as she settled herself, Booth trying to ignore the way the hem of the shirt rode dangerously high over her bottom.

"Well... how about BenGay or a hot water bottle?"

She shook her head. "No... I don't have them in the house."

Tentatively, he sat on the edge of the bed behind her and started rubbing her lower back gently, trying to create a little warmth from the friction between his hand, the shirt's fabric, and her skin.

She didn't quite stiffen-- just seemed poised for a moment as he first touched her, then let her weight sink into the bed a bit. She shifted a little more, her right arm and shoulder curling in, but didn't make any more sounds of pain as he continued to circle her back with his hand. He could feel the tensed muscles bunched under his palm, and wondered about suggesting she let him call her a masseuse to work on those knots, since one thing only reinforced the other.

He realized that he'd fallen into a kind of a trance as he sat there, rubbing her back with his hand, and noted that she seemed to have straightened a little. Her breathing seemed far more even, and he ventured a thick-voiced apology now that she seemed better.

"I'm really, really, sorry Bones," he managed to say, before the rest of the words lodged in his throat again.

"'S'okay," she slurred lightly. "Doc said I'll be fine," she continued, her voice sounding sleepy. "Y'did'n mean it," she said, then trailed off.

"Still," he choked out, before his throat closed again. He managed to keep constant and firm the circles he pressed into her back with the flat of his palm.

"S'nice," Bones mumbled. "Ange's hands too small fr'a proper back rub. But sh's warm in bed, t'least."

"Angela slept with you?" he managed, wondering how much of this conversation was a product of her simply being tired, or under the horse dose of Valium she'd taken just a short bit ago.

"Mmm," Bones said softly. "S'nice, spoon keeps m'back warm."

"Does that make it feel better?" he asked, inhaling her scent of lavender bath salts and _Bones_ as he ran his hand up and down her spine.

"Mmm," she mumbled again. "Does."

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked gruffly, wondering if he should even ask. But she'd let him help in the bathroom, and now was letting him rub her back. And damnit, he needed her to let him help her, it was killing him every time he looked at her to see her in pain and know he was the cause. If he could do anything, however little it might be in the larger scope of things....

"Yes," she said clearly but quietly. "Y're warm... smell nice..." she said, then trailed off.

He leaned over and turned off the light, and slid in behind her until he could loop an arm around her waist, pulling himself close enough to radiate some heat into her. She shifted, mumbling, then snuggled all the way back into him, her back contacting his chest, her legs on his, her hips nestled into his.

He'd missed this, oh, he'd almost thrown it away even as he missed something he'd never experienced for himself. But her snuggling into him in her bed, in the darkness? Everything else to the side, he'd missed it now that he knew what it felt like, now that he knew all the chances he'd passed up. She sighed as he tightened his arm over her waist, shifting once again as she mumbled "'Night, Booth."

"Goodnight, Bones," he said softly, then let out a sigh-- he supposed he sighed like an old dog who heaved himself up on the bed and found that all unexpectedly, his person would let him sleep in the bed after all, even though he hadn't expected it. His person, and she was letting him sleep with her. His Bones.

"Sweet dreams, Temperance," he murmured, then chuckled at her response.

"Told you, stick wi' Bones. M'not dying an y're not 'llowed to leave, 's final."

"Whatever you say, Bones," he said, another layer of plaster smoothing over the deep fractures he'd put on his own heart.

"Mmm. Go to sleep." She sighed a last time, snuggled into him more, and soon fell to sleep. Her ribs rose and fell, her diaphragm moving under his hand, her hair tickling his nose.

"Love you, Bones," he whispered, just needing to tell her, even if she was dreaming and wouldn't hear him.

"Mmph. Me too. Now g'to sleep."

Was it possible to die of an un-broken heart, when it re-assembled so quickly that it was a shock to the system? He hadn't realized his heart hadn't been beating, not really, until his pulse, coming back, hammered him with the realization all over again of what he'd almost lost, and what she seemed to be willing to let him try to regain.

He sighed again, pulled his favorite person even more closely to him, and closed his eyes.


	24. Chapter 24

Booth woke at some noise outside on the street, his eyes adjusting to the early morning light. Raising his arm, he looked at his watch-- six in the morning. He slipped from the bed as quietly as possible, pushing the covers up closer onto Bones' shoulders, then went out to the living room to pick up his phone and make a few calls to call in sick to work. He hadn't taken any time off since that time Parker had the flu and Becs had to go out of town for work-- and he was going to lose the time anyway, so why not take it? Bones was more than sufficient reason to let paperwork stack up for another day.

Just in case, he brought his phone back into her room, though, and set it to vibrate, leaving it on her bedside table. Then, he slipped back in behind her, settling himself closely again as he looped both his arms around her. Once again, she snuggled trustingly into him. Trustingly. He was a lucky, miserable bastard. He whispered "I love you" once again into her hair, and closed his eyes.

* * *

The problem-- if you could call it that-- with muscle relaxants was that the tongue was a muscle, Brennan reflected as she slowly awoke. Not that she didn't love Booth, or that she hadn't planned on telling him ... just that it would have been nicer for it to be under more consciously articulated circumstances. She was worried that he might think she wouldn't have said it unless she was under the influence of the sedative, or that he thought, even worse, that his saying it meant he'd suggested it, and that therefore her response wasn't true. And she wondered if he thought she'd even remember her that he'd told her he loved her, too. So complicated. Emotions should be dealt with in full daylight, at noon, with no shadows. Murmurs in the dark were nice, but often required confirmation.

She sighed, her eyes still closed, reveling in his warmth. She wasn't glad she'd banged her elbow, it hurt like hell and would probably still do so today, but at least it had spurred Booth to action-- to stop looking so much like a lost little boy, or a man too crushed to go on, and more like himself. She hadn't missed the flicker of panic as he caught sight of her bruises-- but he'd pushed past it this time, and convinced her as he gently tried to help her that his hesitation right after he'd hurt her was, in fact, paralysis of a sort. He was so shocked by what he'd done that he was literally unable to act-- not something she would have expected, but in light of his revelation about "crashing" when his emotional energy all ran out, it made sense.

Her own physical distrust of him melted when she saw how despondent he was as soon she looked through her peephole. But she'd been concerned that he would continue to distrust himself physically around her-- to an extreme extent. Her needing his help had pushed him over that hump-- that gentleness and wanting to help stemmed not from guilt, but from who Booth was, what he did, childhood issues notwithstanding. He just needed to learn to not try to save the whole world every day. And her back did feel better for his lying behind her.

His warm bulk, pressed closely to her, his deep even breaths across the back of her neck where he'd buried his nose in her hair, his arms carefully circling her waist, holding her to him gently but firmly-- she hadn't moved at all once he slid in behind her, and she felt far more rested for the lack of tossing and turning. She wished she could burrow back into him all day, but he would need to work and she would need to pretend to. But she didn't want to wake up, not yet. There were things she needed to tell him, fears she needed him to assuage, though his coming, and staying, and helping began to allay them.

Opening her eyes, only reluctantly, she was startled to see the time displayed on her alarm clock.

"Booth," she said softly, reaching down to tug at one hand.

"Nnnrh..." he grumbled, not shifting at all.

"Booth," she said, slightly more loudly. "It's almost ten o'clock-- you're late for work..."

He shifted, pulling her even closer than she already was. "Nnnno. Called 'n sick." His voice was deeper and rougher with sleep.

Her automatic response came out a few seconds before her feeling of relief. "You didn't have to," she heard herself say, even as she realized how glad she was that he did.

"Mmmph-- did. Wan' take care f'my Bones, have to," he mumbled, nuzzling her neck seemingly unconsciously. "G'back t'sleep, Bones, y'need it, m'kay?" With that statement of fact, he rubbed a small circle her belly, snuggled closer, and burrowed his face deeper into her hair.

_My Bones_. That answered one question she'd worried about. A smile joined a few tears leaking from her as she closed her eyes. "Okay," she said softly, closing her eyes.

He muttered once more, this time to himself. "Gotta take care f'my Bones."

--

She woke to the sound of her front door opening and closing. Not Booth-- he was still sleeping behind her, his deep hot breath on her neck. Brennan was confused enough that she couldn't figure out what to do next, and then didn't need to, because her door slowly opened a crack and Ange stuck her head into the bedroom. Brennan turned to lie on her back, Booth grumbling and shifting to throw a leg over her and rest his head on her left shoulder. Brennan smiled sheepishly at her friend, then suppressed a chuckle at the way Angela grinned like a fool. Her friend opened the door a bit more, held up a bag full of takeout, put her fingers over her lips, and turned, closing the door behind her.

At the snick of the door lock engaging, Booth stiffened, then stilled, his eyes snapping open as he appeared to listen intently.

"It was just Angela," Brennan said soothingly, wondering if he always came to alert like that every time something disturbed his sleep. "She must have tried to call and didn't get me, so she came over with,food."

"Time's it?" Booth rasped, shifting back onto his side so he could look at her.

"Eleven thirty..." she said, turning to look at the clock.

"Sleepy Bones..." he said, a slow sleepy smile on his face.

"You're the one snoring in my ear," she said, poking him as she lay on her back, looking up at him. It was both utterly strange and entirely natural to see Booth in her bed, grinning at her, and she shook her head at the surrealness of it all.

"I don't snore," Booth protested, scootching out of the bed so she could get out.

"Breathe extremely loudly through your mouth, then," Bones teased, unable to help herself. She sat up, forgetting for a moment that she hadn't buttoned her shirt last night, only then realizing that her shirt was gaping wide open and that Booth was studiously looking away. Well, she couldn't expect him to get over four years of trying not to ogle her all at once. Not that he'd really succeeded, but he'd tried, so she gave him credit for that. At least he always looked her in the eyes first and last, even if his gaze drifted occasionally.

Clutching her shirt closed, she slid over to the side of the bed, managing not to jostle her arm, then walked to her closet to see about something longer and with more coverage.

"I don't snore," Booth grumbled again, as Brennan just snorted.

"Whatever. Go see what Angela brought? If there's no coffee, I could use some," she said, shaking her head to clear the last vestiges of drug-induced fuzziness.

While he was gone, she pulled down a robe from its hook, happy to note that while her elbow throbbed, her neck seemed generally better, and her whole arm felt more mobile, less like a dead weight that couldn't be moved. Warm Booth was an excellent remedy, it seemed. She should keep wearing the sling during the day, she supposed, but she might well be back at work full-time next week.

She managed the robe without jostling her arm, then decided for modesty's sake that she should put on some pants. She had no idea how long Booth would be here today, so better to be dressed and not flash him. She managed to hold the sash down with her right hand without creating any shooting pains as she belted the robe, and snorted to herself. _Gee, Temperance, by the weekend you might actually be able to hold things again_. She slung herself into the sling, pleasing herself with the play on words, and came out to the kitchen.

Booth was standing with his back to her rubbing his head, his hair inartfully mussed and sticking out in ten different directions, his suit pants completely rumpled and his undershirt askew. She couldn't help it-- she just burst out laughing. He turned around, looking confused.

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't think I've ever seen you so ... disheveled," she said, smiling.

He looked down. "What? Wrinkled gabradine's all the rage, Bones." He snorted, then looked her in the eye. "I have some stuff in the truck I can change into so I don't look like I did the walk of shame. Although, of course, even going out to the truck would involve a certain amount of the walk of shame."

"I don't know what that means." Brennan replied.

Booth smiled at her indulgently-- much more preferable to his usual smirk when he corrected her about something pop culture-- and said, "It's just when you spend the night at someone else's place for sex and go home in the same clothes you arrived in."

"Ah..." she replied. "I always carry at least fresh underthings in my purse. Not just for sex, though. You never know when you'll get caught in a rainstorm or a mudslide."

Booth shook his head, then finished fishing cartons out of the bags Angela brought.

"Looks like Ange was counting on it being the two of you," he said. "There's some egg white omelet with veggies and home fries here that I think is for you, and a ham and cheese omelet and fries that's not enough to fill in one corner of my stomach in the other. And ugh, whole grain toast."

"Well, you'd better eat it anyway," Brennan replied. "You might faint, otherwise. It's been what, ten hours since you ate?"

Booth snorted, then smiled almost wistfully at her. Pulling out some plates and forks, he transferred the contents of the containers and carried them over to the table, then poured some coffee while Brennan pulled out cream and some condiments. When she reached the table, he'd returned with a separate plate full of the whole wheat toast she and Angela tended to order.

"Please tell me you have some jam," Booth said seriously. "I need some sugar."

Brennan shook her head. "You want jam, you buy some." She set to her omelet as Booth fixed her coffee, surprised again by the surreal normalcy of having breakfast with Booth.

_You can't do anything normally, Temperance. No, you have to get into a fight with the man you love, get injured, turn into an emotional mess, well, more of one than you already were, and then have to manipulate your messy self-inflicted wreck of a partner into getting his butt over here so that you can have it out-- and then make everything almost normal by banging the crap out of yourself in the bathroom. Drama queen, much? Well, at least it wasn't intentional, except for the getting him over here part._

She slurped her coffee, blowing on the still too-hot liquid, then forked up more of her omelet.

"What's in that?" Booth mumbled around a mouthful of omelet. "And where are these from?"

Brennan finished her mouthful-- "Egg white omelet with broccoli, roasted tomatoes, and cream cheese, and Angela and I go to a little place in Dupont Circle sometimes when we're tired of the diner."

Booth looked actively horrified. "Why would you ever get tired of the diner?"

Brennan gave him a wry grin. "First, they don't serve champagne for brunch, and Angela does love her Bellinis. Second, Ruby and Sally and Trudy are all over you and your favorite flavors of pie, but the rest of us are a far, far second. Ange and I enjoy being fussed over by the cute gay waiters who think we're just '_gorgeous_!'"

Booth gave her that wistful look again. "Y'know, I always assume you're just working or writing or dating some guy I hate even if I never meet him on the weekends-- I never really thought about you guys doing just ... friend stuff."

Seeing the admission for what it was-- an apology for the parts of her life he took for granted-- Brennan replied in kind. "Well, it's not like I'm always a font of volunteered information, and I haven't precisely inquired about hockey games or supermodels or whatever friends you do things with when you don't have Parker."

Booth rubbed his head sheepishly, making his hair even more awry. Brennan always thought he was handsome, sometimes breathtakingly so, but right now he was ... endearing. "Uh ... no supermodels, hardly. And I mostly hang out with Hank or go to games with him, if we're not working or I'm not plowing through crap at the office. I ... just … stopped going out with most of the guys from the office except every once in a blue moon with Charlie and Geier and one or two others. The rest of them were just ... pigs." He actually turned red after that statement, and Brennan wondered if they were being "_pigs_" about her, or just in general.

"Well, I'm here to help you evolve," she said lightly, recalling then that Hank was his friend from the Army who'd been hurt and was now in a wheelchair.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "You are."

Just then, Booth's phone clattered from where he'd brought it out to set on her counter. He got up to look at it, then said "Cam."

Brennan smiled at him. Better now than later. "Go ahead. And you can tell her I'm not planning on quitting."

He looked at her, shocked, but she waved her hand at him. "Get it. I'll explain, I promise."

She set back to her food while he answered the phone, though with some trepidation as to how he might respond when he found out she'd played him indirectly.

"Camille ... yeah. No ... just called in sick. Yeah. No, things are fine." He listened for some interval, then looked over at Brennan once more. "Yeah, I did." He listened a bit longer, then made a sour face at something Cam said. "Look, I've got some other stuff I've got to get done today, but Bones said to tell you she's not planning on leaving." There was some response at the other end of the line, and he made another face. "Yeah. Gotta go, okay?" he said, then promptly flipped shut the phone.

Turning to look at her, he had a surprised look on his face.

"You played Cam, didn't you?"

Brennan took a sip of her coffee, nodding. "Does it bother you?"

He shook his head, looking bemused. "No. I probably would have sat on my hands at least another day or two, otherwise. But I don't think Cam even knows what you did."

"Fine. Let it stay that way."

"I ... I'm just surprised, Bones," he said, rubbing the side of his head. "You told Ange that white lie last night and totally played Cam ..."

Seriously, Brennan set down her mug. "Well, I don't lie to you. Haven't ever, won't ever. Fail to understand the truth and be in denial? Yes. Consciously lie? No. Not that there's much of a difference in the end, but at least it isn't on purpose."

Booth chuckled. "Well, I guess I deserved to be played that little bit."

"You did," Brennan replied, then took the last bite of her food. "But finish your breakfast, hmm? I left you the dry, unbuttered whole grain toast to fill in the holes this measly omelet will leave."

He barked a laugh. "Mmm. Cardboard," he said, then came back to the table.

She worked on her coffee, he finished his breakfast, and she regarded him as he ate. He was still more than a bit of a mess, but he was mostly her Booth again, not the distraught figure she'd opened her door to last night. Apparently warm Brennan was an excellent remedy, too.

Smiling to herself, she balanced her empty mug on top of her plate, and left the things on the counter next to the sink. Booth had finished as well, and was standing right behind her when she turned. He reached past her to set his own things down, then looked at her with more than a hint of insecurity on his face before he stepped in to pull her into another embrace.

"Are we going to be okay, Bones?" he asked, his voice rumbling under her ear.

She squeezed him with the good arm she'd wrapped around his waist. "We will be."


	25. Chapter 25

_My apologies for the delay in getting this next chapter posted, and many thanks for the PMs and reviews wanting more. I was debating about how to end this scene, and there was also some head-scratching in the middle, too. All in all, I was trying not to just retread some other things I've already written, and I hope I've achieved it. But-- the end to this scene is just for you, doctorsuez, lots of Seeley Brood_.

* * *

Booth managed to stop being clingy at Bones' "_we will be_," and let go after not too much longer then shoved his shoes onto his feet and shrugged his shirt on, not bothering to tuck everything in. Walk of shame, whatever. Like he cared about his own pride right now. He gave Artie, the watchman, a nod as he came back in from the truck with some casual clothes--though he left his extra suit in the truck, thank you very much, because like Bones said, you never knew when you'd get caught in one of those Beltway mudslides. More like sliding dead bodies in his line of work, euuurgh. At least Artie'd seen him coming and going from Bones' at all hours for years-- God knew what he thought, but he never said anything but "_Hey, thanks, man_," when Booth brought him doughnuts or coffee or other sugared delights. He didn't raise an eyebrow at Booth's dishabille-- watchmen knew when to keep secrets.

When he came back up, Bones had tidied herself up a bit, not that she was anything but gorgeous even when she was physically miserable, but she'd straightened her hair out and managed to put on a hoodie instead of her robe. He wished almost that she'd left her robe on-- because daydreams of playing hooky and house with Bones were exactly what he ought to be doing right now. He wanted to pretend like it was a good dream-- not a bad dream he still had to fix. But at least she was letting him fix it, wanted to fix it too. And ... he thought, he hoped she looked a little less tense, a little less pain-pinched than yesterday. He just hoped he'd been some help. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks to whatever saint was rooting for him-- or rooting for Bones. He wasn't picky.

She was drinking more coffee, curled on her sofa, and reading something that didn't look squinty when he came in. She looked up with a half-smile. "Help yourself to a shower. I've got a list of errands I want you to run."

Help yourself, she said. Helping Bones _was_ helping himself.

* * *

He stood in the aisle at the market going over his list. Heating pad. Well, she hadn't asked for the rest, but he'd get it anyway. Tiger balm, hot water bottle, because she couldn't very well sleep with a heating pad, and he couldn't very well presume that she'd let him be her personal heating pad every night until she felt better, much less forever, which would of course be his choice if she let him, so a hot water bottle just in case it was.

Groceries. Coffee, cream, sugar, the other things on the list she'd dictated to him. She'd grinned wryly as she said "It will take me at least until Saturday to master left-handed penmanship." Jam? She said he'd have to get it if he wanted it. Was she just making fun of him because he liked sweet things with breakfast--or should he really buy some? He'd brought some hot sauce once when he'd brought Thai, and she'd let him keep it in her fridge, rolling her eyes and saying "you eat here enough, you might as well"-- she'd replaced it with a new one right before the old one ran out and had ever since. He was a lucky, lucky, bastard if she was going to let him keep jam and hot sauce at her place.

He got some jam and some more things from his own mental list, then made a few calls as he drove. Hank for some info, Charlie to make sure the bullpen hadn't burned down, Becs to confirm plans for the weekend with Parker. And then he was back at Bones' place.

"Use your key," she'd said when he left. It closed over some more of those self-inflicted wounds.

_"Come on in." "We will be." "Use your key."_

Nine words. So much better than none, ever again, like he'd been afraid of.

She wasn't in the living room or kitchen when he let himself in. To his inquiring "Bones?" there was a faint "Bedroom!" and what sounded like talking. She was on the phone, then. Booth contented himself to put things away in the kitchen and bathroom, grinning like the village idiot at being able to bustle around Bones' place beyond mere takeout and cases-- until it made him think again about all the things he didn't know about Bones, what she did on the weekends only the tip of the iceberg. He didn't even know if she usually went to the grocery store, or ordered delivery.

What did she and Angela do for fun? Did she have other friends he knew nothing about? Was she still doing karate? She used to talk about her trips-- sort of-- and some of the sporty stuff that she did, but at some point she'd stopped. Why? Because he'd made fun of her assertions of how fit she was too many times? Hell-- they'd never even gone to the movies together, and he could count on one hand the number of times he and Parker dragged her out to do things with them that didn't involve them crashing in on her in the lab on Sundays at lunchtime, when she was trying to get work done.

For someone he considered to be his best friend, he hadn't acted too friendly-- he was too busy avoiding the truth, he guessed. And yet, she'd said something about her not asking _him_ questions as the cause of him not believing she was interested. Well, that was just hooey. He'd just latched on to any excuse to justify not acting on his interest in her. Too afraid that she'd toss him out for all the stuff that happened way before she came along--that she now knew about-- and instead she'd let him snuggle her to almost his heart's content. He'd always been too afraid to be anything but snappish when she inquired at all into his life. Well-- he didn't blame her at all for getting mixed messages. She always got this look of childlike disbelief when he made his cowardly and grandiloquent promises-- like she really wanted to believe him, but couldn't. No wonder-- Seeley Booth, master deceiver-- self deceiver, liar to loved ones.

Finished with putting things away, he went back to her room to just poke his head in. Looking up, she gave him the "_just a moment_" sign and went back to her call. "Well, I'm really glad you called, and I'm sorry to have missed that-- it would have been funny to see. Right-- I'll give you a call later, and we can discuss the names of our squintlings." There was some masculine burst of laughter on the other end of the phone, some other words, and then Bones smiled. "Alright, Jack. Talk to you later."

Hanging up, she looked at him in the doorway. "Sorry. Jack called to describe Cam's relief at being told that I was not leaving the lab and taking everyone with me."

Booth shook his head. "I still can't believe you played her."

Bones' mouth twisted. "I can't believe that she spent that long not talking to you if she thought something was off, and that it took the threat of my leaving for her to do anything about it. I have no problem playing someone like that."

He tipped his head. He hadn't thought about it that way. "You're not fond of her, hunh?"

Bones shook her head. "I'm really not interested in talking about Cam. She's a good pathologist. Most of the rest of the time, how I feel about her is irrelevant."

Her tone was both final and assured, so Booth dropped it. Instead, he said "What was that about squintlings?"

Bones was in the middle of heaving herself off the bed and paused the long moment it took her to stand up while keeping her balance. "Oh," she said snorting. "He was joking around the other night at one point when he was over about the two of us running off to breed mad-scientist babies. He was calling them squintlings today and asking me if I'd changed my mind."

Smiling, she made her way past him and went out to the kitchen to start a kettle for tea.

Booth felt ill at ease, and decided to ask Bones. "You said you talked to Hodgins about ... this?"

She turned to look at him before filling the kettle and nodded once. "Some of it. Is that a problem?" Her tone indicated that it had better not be.

His response, however, came before he had time to assess it-- "I don't really like everyone knowing our problems."

"Booth-- that's stupid. If either one of us tossed the other out on their ear, they'd all want to know why, and they'd probably find out anyway. So the fact that they have some idea that something or other has happened when we're trying to get back normal again is irrelevant."

"Still," he said, feeling mulish, though he wasn't sure why.

Bones tipped her head at him, beginning to look truly annoyed as she crossed back to him, getting right into his space. Well, at least he could put to bed the fear of her being physically afraid of him if she was ready already to flatten him. Thank God.

"You told Sweets, and you _know_ I don't trust him as far as I can throw him with this sling on. You told Angela, in more detail than even I did. You told my _boss_ and your ex-girlfriend, by the way, who I would prefer know _nothing_ about my private life. And yet you didn't talk first to the one person you should have talked to-- me. If you'd come over here Saturday or Sunday, well, I can't guarantee we'd have fixed everything by now-- but the fact that it took you so long, Booth? Well, I understand why, but I needed someone to talk to in the meantime-- someone less invested in my emotions the way Angela is. I hardly think you have any right to judge who I decide I need to talk to in order to sort through my own concerns."

Boy, he was putting his mouth in it today, but he found himself unable to stop himself. "Since when did you get all palsy with Hodgins?"

Now her eyes flashed, and she stepped in to poke him in the chest, her voice taking on that righteous tone she got when she was angry. "You're _jealous_. Why does it matter? I nearly _died_ with the man, Booth. I can rely on him to help me think something through whether or not we have coffee dates every week, and for your information, I gave him none of the details of our ... altercation, unlike you, who went around airing pretty much of _all_ our dirty laundry to the rest of the team. And believe me, I am not happy _at all_ with Angela for relating extremely private details to not only you but _Sweets_ of all people. I understand your thinking, or your not-thinking as I should say as to what happened this week, but don't get all sulky on me because I asked the only man on the team with any chance of beating you in a fight for some perspective."

"Sweets is our _therapist_," Booth said, confused as to why she was upset about that one part of it all, though he was beginning to see the rest of her point. Jack was a good guy, and always treated Bones with friendly respect, but he'd been good about being straight with Bones back when her Mom's remains were found. He wouldn't give her false sympathy.

Bones shook her head vehemently, then poked him hard as she raised her voice, truly angry this time. "Sweets is _your_ therapist, not mine. I tolerate him for the sake of whatever stupid thing the Bureau thinks needs to be accomplished so we can keep working together, but I never trusted him with the details of my life and I certainly never will after the way he fucking _experimented_ on me after you were dead, the unethical little shit."

Booth stilled, the confused anger that had started to build in him evaporating. "What do you mean, experiment?"

He suddenly remembered the way the kid yakked in the basket at O'Reilly's after Angela left with a parting shot that he shouldn't ever assume that "_Brennan has more feelings in her little finger than you've had in your whole life_." No wonder he'd puked if this was what he'd been thinking about.

Bones stomped off to the couch, flopping down and looking pissed as all hell. "He decided to not tell me you were dead because he thought it would be interesting to observe how I dealt with your death-- it had nothing to do with fucking national security, which is a complete joke since I have higher fucking security clearance than he ever will."

Booth saw red in an instant. "What did he do, then, while I was away?"

Bones threw her good hand up in the air. "Oh, kept being around to try and comfort the team, the obnoxious little turd, and acting all sympathetic and trying to get me to _talk_ about things because I must be _grieving_ and it's not _healthy_ to suppress _feelings_ and all that shit. He kept saying I'd need to _deal_ with it because I couldn't continue to work with the Bureau if I didn't, but I just ignored him. I had no intention of working with the Bureau after that-- I couldn't possibly-- it was irrelevant what he thought. He's useless." Her face conveyed her utter disgust.

He sat in the chair opposite her with a thump, his brain still trying to process what she'd said. "You would've been fired..."

She glared at him, eyes wide and nostrils flaring-- "You were _dead_. Did you think I really gave a shit about my fucking _job_, Booth? I just lost someone I thought of as my best friend, someone I'd never told that I loved, whatever you felt, and you think I was worried about money or reputation or anything other than trying to get it under control long enough to figure out what the hell I was going to do without you?"

She set her mouth in a line, her chin quivering and eyes glimmering, before she bit out eight words that hurt as much as her earlier ones healed.

"_You have no idea what it was like_."

She bit the inside of her lower lip as she always did when she was trying to avoid crying, but the tears in her eyes still threatened to spill. The grief on her face was as raw as anything he'd ever seen on any of his friends'-- hell, his own, too-- right after one of their buddies got killed, or when he had to tell someone their loved one was dead. He managed to get out of his chair and kneel in front of her, taking her good hand in his and willing her to believe what he would say next.

"You're right. I don't. I can only imagine. I know how scared I was those two times when I thought you might be, and how relieved I was that you weren't, but that wasn't the same. I know that. I can't ever, ever really know what it was like unless it happens to me-- which I pray to God it never does-- and I'm so, so sorry Bones. I was wrong to trust anyone else to make sure you knew and so incredibly wrong not to say anything about how I felt, how much I missed you, all of that when it was over."

He looked deeply at her, hoping she wouldn't doubt his sincerity, hoping she'd stop looking so despairing even though it was past now all these months later. He felt his own throat close as a few tears started to leak down her cheeks. Shifting, he sat next to her on the couch and started rubbing her back, murmuring again that he was sorry, that he never wanted to hurt her, that he loved her. She visibly struggled to keep herself under control, but it broke when he gently pulled her into his lap, cradling her as he continued to say "Temperance, I'm so sorry."

She choked once, and the veritable floodgates burst. He just held her, rocking her gently and murmuring assurances all over again, while she choked out deep sobs and wet his shirt with her tears. At last, he had no idea how long, she seemed to quiet. Booth continued hold her close to his chest when she spoke. "It was like ... late twilight, when the streetlights are on and they don't do any good, and you have to strain your eyes to see anything, and everything's shadowed and grey. And ... it ... was never going to be sunny again," she said, then let out another sob, setting loose another freshet of tears. Bones didn't express her writerly side around other people, but she often waxed almost poetic when she was worked up about something when it was just the two of them, whether the subject made her angry, sad, or merely amused. His Bones, outwardly literal, but metaphoric as hell in her private expressions.

"Oh, Bones," he said, kissing her temple where it was exposed to him. Booth kept holding her as she continued to cry, gasping sobs and ragged breaths and so many tears his shirtfront was soaked-- he only now fully realized the depths of the grief Angela tried to convey. Hearing about it second-hand was hard enough. Seeing it now despite all the time past—it was almost too much. He squeezed her gently and just held her, started repeating all his assurances, and stifled his own urge to cry at how stricken she was-- that was the last thing she needed. He'd done more than enough bawling for now.

Bones was stronger than he was-- of that he was certain. He couldn't have worked, much less continued to suppress how he felt, had it been the reverse. And yet she'd said nothing, because he'd said nothing, let her think he'd felt nothing. She'd probably decided it would burden him to say how she felt, since logically, if he felt something beyond friendship for her, then his damned resurrection would have been the time for him to say something when she made clear how angry she was.

When he said nothing? He didn't blame her for maintaining her silence. He'd missed her every damned day and never regretted taking that bullet, but he'd never just said so—though someone who was just her good friend would have at least said that much. Instead, he chickened out in the face of her anger, and then Zach, and then ... he let things slide, assumed they were okay. Even made the foolish assumption that she hadn't been all that affected, though the sheer force of that punch should have made him dig deeper. Self-deception all over again, all spilling over onto his Bones-- he was the heart guy, he'd said so, and she'd trusted him to be for both of them. If he hadn't been so damned insecure in the first place-- Bones rarely shied if you asked her a direct question-- if he'd said something, just asked her if she wanted that line of his gone, then she wouldn't be sitting here soaking his shirt and shaking with sobs. Of course, everything was easy in hindsight.

"Shh, Bones," he heard himself say as he continued to think. "Don't cry so hard, we'll figure it out, we both will, I promise, okay?" He pressed another kiss to the side of her head as he continued to hold her until her breath slowly evened. "My sweet Bones," he soothed, petting her hair where she'd hid her face in his chest. Finally, her breathing seemed to shift to the deeper cadence of sleep-- no wonder. He was exhausted just seeing her cry like that-- she'd been at it nearly an hour as he noted with shock when he looked at the clock on the DVR timer. Her tensed muscles further relaxed as he continued to hold her, her slighter-than-expected weight settling into his lap.

Though he was loathe to move her given the fact that she clearly trusted him enough to completely collapse on him like this-- and since touching her under any circumstance was always preferable to any competing activity-- he reluctantly decided her curled up posture couldn't be good for her neck-- so he gathered her carefully before standing and bringing her back to her room. He settled her carefully on her side, loosing the sling from the straps at the d-rings so he could pull it from her, and settled her covers up over her shoulders. Sitting next to her on the bed, he smoothed her tangled hair back from her pale, blotchy face.

Bones looked small when she was unaware she was watched-- she weighed less when you carried or held her, felt more petite when she let you hold her. Booth damned well knew that before-- but he kept forgetting it, kept forgetting when dealing with her to balance the strong woman she was and could be with the more fragile parts she worked so hard to suppress and keep hidden. He overprotected too often, and yet at the same token could be even more insensitive to her than people who knew her less well-- and confused his own addictive need for her presence, her safety to keep him sane with her ability to care for herself. He'd had a truly unbalanced approach to her-- he'd held on too tight and yet not in all the wrong places, literally and figuratively-- and now they were wobbling back toward some equilibrium. He hoped. What were those children's toys from when he was small? "_Weebles wobble but they don't fall down_?" He hoped they were Weebles and didn't fall down.

They'd both taken an unbalanced approach to the other, trusting and yet not too much and yet not enough. No wonder Sweets said they were "totally dysfunctional." They were uncentered, despite his past assertion that they were the center. They'd both become uncentered, taking different paths to the same wobbly conclusion. Where he bluffed his way through his fear of failure and being unloved by being Mr. Personality Tough Guy, a kind of mirror. He let people think he was endlessly strong, and reflected back to people whatever they wanted to see, whatever they needed from him.

Bones, on the other hand, hid her soft gooey center under a different coating. Where he reflected, she deflected-- Ms. Literal Scientist, a Teflon non-scratch, non-stick surface. She was opaque, and there was no way to judge what she thought of you. Her coating was a different shield for her own insecurities, her holy Independence-- if she didn't let things stick to her at all, then they could never stick around long enough to hurt when they left-- wouldn't have to be scraped off, leaving damage and permanent marks on her surface. So-- he spent all his time making sure his mirror was shiny and losing his shit when it tarnished, and she tried to hide behind her nonstick coating and flipped out when someone scraped through what was supposed to be an indestructible layer-- and then everything stuck, in all the wrong places.

"My poor Bones," he said softly, tucking one last errant strand of hair back from her face. "I'm going to do my best to pay better attention, I can at least promise you that." He kissed her cheek and stood, sighing. He had more physical and emotional housekeeping to do-- he'd better get started.


	26. Chapter 26

**_Thanks for all the lovely reviews and PMs after that last chapter-- and I hope you enjoy this one. I've gotten behind in responding personally to reviews, but please know I appreciate each and every one._**

* * *

_Ah well, I'd have had that meltdown sooner or later_, _probably in front of him anyway_, Brennan thought to herself as she woke-- at least Booth wouldn't tell tales out of school, and not just because he'd just been an utter wreck in front of her, too. She still was extremely unhappy with Angela for telling Booth and _Sweets_, for heaven's sake, that she reacted so violently to things. Not just things-- things involving _Booth_, when except for him it had been _years_ since she'd done more than merely cried for a bit, slept poorly, and continued to work, relieved to be able to direct her energies. She'd broken down plenty after her parents left, but after the nightmare of foster care was done and she was safe at University among merely indifferent classmates, things were much easier. Comparatively-- Temperance Brennan was a woman who knew all about the relative measures of things.

Once she'd achieved the haven of college, she could go months without nightmares in lieu of the depression and apathy she resisted during the day-- as she excelled in her classes and gained the respect of her teachers, things improved to the point where she could count herself _content_ with the things she was learning and the means by which she kept herself occupied. She'd had to learn to compartmentalize, but she'd always learned everything thoroughly and well.

She actually made it all the way through college and into that first foreign dig during grad school before she had her next breakdown, and then only after the locals mistakenly believed they were spies, and sold them out to guerillas. It had taken her months before she could sleep more than three hours a time, and almost a half-year before she could sleep with the lights off again, but at least her karate skills had proven themselves, as shaking and nauseous and hysterical as she'd been after she killed that guard. She still felt the reverberation of his sternum snapping under her foot as it traveled up her leg, up her spine, ingrained itself into her memory. She'd never forget the look on his face at that moment, never forget how it felt when she dealt the fatal blow-- it woke her every night for months, even as she refused to take sedatives. Medication was different from compartmentalization.

Booth was right all those years ago when he'd said '_we all die a little_.' Why hadn't she agreed, told him that he wasn't alone in regretting the lives that he'd taken? Why hadn't she told him that he wasn't alone in doing dark things before they'd ever met? She'd seen then how much he was hurting, knew for herself the particular regret he was feeling, and thought him far more brave than she to be able to get up every day knowing that as part of his job he might have to do the same thing-- killing-- that left her a heaving hysterical wreck every time after she did it-- and yet she hadn't told him. Knowing now as she did what he'd been worrying about all this time? Well, she valued her privacy, but she should have known even then that Booth could be trusted completely-- anyone who dropped everything to travel cross-country to help a mere work partner who woke up missing a day, half an earlobe, and sporting a new broken wrist was someone who could handle some secrets, even ones that revealed her to have merely human emotions.

Well, if Booth was still here after she'd made a complete snot-ridden, sobbing hysterical wreck of herself, perhaps things would work out after all. And perhaps she could find a way to let him the rest of the way in, though old habits about keeping her thoughts, her mouth, her heart under lock and key would die hard-- even with Booth. But she'd have to try, damnit. The prospect of him walking away was even scarier than his making his way all the way in.

* * *

Having heaved herself out of bed without too much discomfort, Brennan debated, listening intently for a moment. It sounded like Booth was still here and cooking something? She wasn't sure if she knew that he cooked, though she supposed that he must. Even he couldn't eat diner or takeout all the time. Padding down the hallway into the living room, she surveyed a novel sight-- Booth intently measuring something into a measuring cup, then dumping it into her soup pot.

"What are you making?" she asked, her voice still a bit raspy from sleep.

He turned, his expression wavering between a shy version of his charm smile and leftover concern for her earlier reaction. "It's a comfort food special they don't even serve at the diner," he said, his smile now conspiratorial. "Good stuff, I promise."

"What is it?" Brennan repeated, coming closer and sniffing deeply. "It smells very good."

"Uh-uh, Bones," he said, coming around her island to block her from looking further. "It's not ready yet, and I think you could probably do with another hot shower, hunh?"

She shrugged, then wished she hadn't. It wasn't precisely painful, but it did send a twinge to her fingertips.

Booth, who'd been watching her intently-- when didn't he, really-- replied "yeah, see?" then turned her around to gently push her off toward the bathroom. "You take a bath or a shower or something, it's going to be a half hour before supper's all set and then you can squint your way through deconstructing the recipe. Okay?"

By this time, he'd steered her into her bathroom. As she came in, she noted he'd changed all the towels and seemingly emptied the hamper. She listened a moment longer, and heard her dryer running. He was doing her dirty laundry? She snorted as she caught herself as the automatic irritation of someone getting into her things began to set in. As if either of them could possibly be more involved in the other's dirty laundry than they already were-- at least he might do a better job at lifting and folding than she had this week.

"Fine," she sighed. "I'll take a bath. But I will be subjecting your culinary skills to an objective assessment once I am done."

"Fine with me," he said, busying himself with something in her medicine cabinet. "This stuff," he said, holding up a small hexagonal container of ointment, "is Tiger Balm. You ever use it?"

Brennan shook her head no. "I prefer to avoid topical analgesics. Too many chemicals."

"Well," Booth replied, as if he'd prepared himself for the argument, "this is all Chinese herbal medicine-y stuff, just check the label. It's good stuff-- you should rub some of it in after you're done with your bath or ... I will," he finished, ducking his head and looking away. "I'm ... uh ... gonna go finish supper."

"Thanks," she managed before he shut the door behind him. Trust Booth to manage to be embarrassed about offering to give her a neck rub after seeing her naked and sleeping in the same bed with her.

* * *

As she was toweling herself off and debating whether to get dressed or put on fresh pyjamas, Booth's voice came through the door. "If you're up for it there's ... ah ... someplace I want to take you after supper." He sounded hesitant, so she agreed readily, lest he think her uninterested. She was unused to a patently hesitant Booth.

"Fine. Anyplace fancy?"

"Uh ... no," he replied. "Not at all."

"Okay," she said, wondering. She never liked surprises and still didn't, but Booth's hesitance made her disinclined to press. Perhaps he would feel more informative once she'd eaten whatever he cooked her for dinner. She made up her mind to be enthusiastic about whatever it was, though it smelled good through the bath salt scents in the bathroom.

After rubbing in some of the ointment Booth bought her, Brennan managed her robe, returned to her room, and managed to find a wrap top that wasn't too hard to put on by herself, then finished dressing. She opted, though, not to bother with more than brushing her hair and putting it back in a ponytail. It wasn't as if Booth hadn't already seen her at her worst. At least she was clean and tidy.

Emerging from the hall to her bedroom, she saw Booth was busying himself with a frying pan, and the smell of something buttery and toasted filled the air.

"Anything I can do?" she asked, knowing Booth would say no but determined to at least offer.

"Nope, all set," he said. "You just sit and it'll be ready in just a few minutes. What do you want to drink?"

"Sparkling water is fine," she said, thinking of whether she should take a painkiller or muscle relaxant, and wondering how long they'd be out. Shrugging to herself, she returned to her bathroom to take a preventative painkiller, then re-entered the living room just as Booth was setting out dinner.

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup?" A smile bloomed on her face. "I haven't had that in ages."

He shot her a grin. "Not just any tomato soup. _Homemade_ tomato soup."

Brennan surveyed the bowl he'd set before her, as well as the plate of stacked halves of grilled cheese sandwiches set down between their two places. It _was_ homemade-- there were actual small chunks of vegetables, and it smelled delicious, so she said so. His smile shifted from mischievous to pleased, then expectant as she took her first spoonful.

"Booth," she said. "It's really very good. Quite delicious."

He smiled again, then grabbed a sandwich half and bit in as his eyes twinkled at her. She took one of her own, assessing it before she bit in. "Grilled cheese doesn't taste right with tomato soup when it's fancy bread and artisan cheese."

Booth chuckled. "White sandwich bread and American cheese-- don't mess with the classics."

The meal was companionably silent thereafter as Brennan found she had more of an appetite than she'd had in days. Wiping her bowl with the end of her second half-sandwich, she shot Booth a grin as he finished his second bowl of soup. "How's your chicken pot pie?"

He snorted. "My pie crust is lousy. There's a reason I eat all my pie at the diner."

She shook her head, laughing. "Well, I won't tell."

Grinning, he gathered the dishes and loaded the dishwasher-- he'd already put some of the soup into some Tupperware in her fridge, and pulled out the container to pour the rest in. She went back to her bedroom to shove on some shoes, then returned to find Booth drying his hands on her dishtowel.

_I like seeing him make himself at home in my kitchen. _The thought came unbidden-- she turned it over, inspected it, and decided that it was true. It had long since ceased to be a matter of tolerating Booth as he pushed his way into her life. Now she missed him when he wasn't here. _And if he wants to do my laundry too, well, I never really liked doing laundry myself._

* * *

Booth was antsy as they drove, and kept flicking her glances in between keeping his eyes on the road. They'd never been much for listening to the radio-- there was always the scanner or radio to be on alert for, or something about the case to discuss, or one of their bickering or bantering conversations. Sometimes, though, they were just silent-- pleasant, companionable, sometimes tense or expectant. This wasn't tense in the sense of either one of them being annoyed with the other, or nervous about something they'd just said that made them feel self-conscious.

To Brennan, it seemed as if he were waiting to see how she'd respond to one more revelation, so she set herself to trying to be patient rather than demanding to know where they were going. The curiosity burned stronger as they drove from her neighborhood to one of the truly seedy parts of town, home to flophouses and day laborer halls, bars that opened first thing in the morning, boarded-up businesses, and empty old warehouses. Booth seemed to know exactly where he was going, however, so she watched the scenery, such as it was, as they passed by drug dealers and prostitutes, homeless and drunks, and all manner of back-alley criminals and people just hard on their luck who were out and about. Booth's truck was, with the exception of the drug dealers' flashier vehicles, the far most expensive and well-kept car anywhere around.

Finally, he came to a stop across the street from what looked like a small boarded-up warehouse, an old two story brick building set back some from the street, with ramshackle wooden shutters and doors bolted or padlocked shut. He turned off the truck, killed the lights, and sat back in his seat before he turned to her, a wary look in his eye, then pointed back across the street to the padlocked double door set somewhat back into the alley.

"That used to be-- maybe it still is, I don't know-- a twice-weekly poker game. Low stakes but long games, so you could get in even if you didn't have a lot of cash, and if you could make your luck stretch most of the night, you could walk out with a lot more than you came in with."

Brennan nodded, then reached out and rubbed her hand over Booth's knee as he looked across the street, collecting his thoughts.

"When I got back that first time I kind of kicked around for a bit and spent a lot of time near the Jersey Shore with a friend from my unit, which is where I picked up the gambling. I needed it ... like I said, I couldn't sleep for more than a few hours straight, and both of us would sometimes blank out, except when we were at the casinos and doing something worlds away from remembering what it was like."

He paused again, so Brennan tried '_just a simple sympathetic word_' to the touch on his knee. "I've blacked out once or twice like that-- having something completely different to do makes a difference."

He shot her a surprised look, but she just squeezed his knee and waited. "Well ... we both sort of straightened out a bit, and I ... distracted myself enough between that and finishing PT that I could pay attention to getting on with things. So I did took my benefits, hooked up with my Reserves unit, did college and the academy, got a regular patrolman's job at the NYPD, and started work on my Master's, since no way was I going to do foot patrol the rest of my life. They'd offered me OCS when I was still in the first time, but ... well, officers are different than NCO's, it's hard to explain. But it was useful at least to prove that you had to prove yourself beyond just everyday doing your job if you were going to get anywhere."

He flicked her another glance, then stared out across the street again. "That whole time I was still playing at Atlantic City every few weekends, but my luck held up, and I was never in the hole. Sometimes I won, sometimes I just came out even, but that was okay, because it was a good distraction when I'd have to shoot someone at work or one of my buddies would get fucked up by some perp and I couldn't sleep because it'd bring it all back. But things were good. I applied at the Manhattan Bureau, got in, got a position in Narcotics, and started working my ass off. Every once in a while I'd go down, blow a few hundred dollars on the tables and walk out a few thousand richer or just that little bit poorer, then get back to work. I ... kept going, you know? I had a few Reserve ... jobs ... dealing with ... targets, but not too many, and nothing I didn't feel like I could handle. They were only for a week at a time, maybe two."

He paused, then resumed. "And then my Reserve unit got called up to go to Serbia-- lots of my regular unit from the first time around were actually in my same reserve unit. I ... didn't want to go." He chuffed a bitter laugh. "More like had screaming nightmares and couldn't sleep more than a few hours at a time those two weeks before we deployed, and my other buddies ... well, we all walked around looking and feeling like shit because we knew what was coming. Of course, once you're back in you don't have time to go off base or off duty to blow all your cash on a distraction that makes you forget what a trigger feels like because you're fingering cards or chips."

Booth drew in a ragged breath as he closed his eyes and watched some old memory play out on the screen of his eyelids. "Well, I told you that time and that General. There was lots of that. Lots of waiting and sometimes watching while these ... scum and their bullyboys started their ... tortures before I could get a clear shot. It was ... worse than the last time, because I knew how I'd feel afterward, too. And yet I had to keep it down, I'd made it to Sergeant and had five specialists under me and had to keep them going too. Sarge, you know. Best shot in the Rangers in years. No one'd broken my shooting record that whole time after I left the regular Army, and even while I was in the Reserves, my aim didn't drop off. I always hit what I aim at, you know? Freak of nature. If I didn't lose my nerve to aim at all-- that's different from hitting the target."

He swallowed, hard, then looked at her, his expression bleak. This time Brennan ran her hand up and down his leg, said "I don't think you're a freak," then quieted once more.

"So here I am, Booth, Seel, legendary Sarge, freakish shot, and I've got five kids following me around like puppies and ready to do whatever I tell them. And my unit Captain's half intel, and a jackass, and so's the Lieutenant, and the regular Intel units are fuck-ups too."

He choked, his voice tight. "You cross-train in the Army. You have a primary specialty-- sniper, for me. But you have a secondary skill, and they take that into account in your deployment. So I'd taken Russian in college, learned more Arabic than I ever wanted to know while I was deployed the first time, and read my fair share of dossiers when I was dealing with ... targets the first time. Plus ... I had experience on the other side of the coin, you know? Knew what it meant to keep my mouth shut, know how to teach others how to keep their mouths shut, too. So ... military intelligence was my secondary skill."

"Skill." The word was rasped. Brennan's heart twisted at the word and all that it implied-- her own work abroad as an a attaché to military, NATO and U.N. investigations told her exactly what it might mean.

"More like a curse to be good at it," she said quietly. She didn't want Booth to feel like he had to go into more detail than that one word-- he needed to know she understood, that he didn't have to air more than just enough for her to give him that assurance.

He gave her a long look so weighted with memory that his shoulders were sagging again. "Yeah. I was good at it. And it was my duty, you know? Except it just was sick, no matter what these ... scum were doing every time I was just setting up to take out another target, rather than gathering intel. You question your duty, you just stop sleeping because what the fuck are you there for if you can't believe that it's justified anymore? How can you nerve yourself up to keep your hands steady and keep pulling that trigger, keep calm enough on the outside so your kids don't lose their nerve, keep doing the work you know you have to do, because how you feel about it doesn't matter because they're not going to send you home unless you go completely apeshit."

Brennan squeezed his arm, then kept listening as he went on to describe the rest of that Bosnian deployment, how two of his specialists were killed during an intel mission, how in two weeks he eliminated a target every two days.

"It was like I was a killing machine, because I just had to do it without thinking. I couldn't sleep if I did. I couldn't eat half the time anyway."

He recounted the rest of the story, then stopped.

"I was so fucked up when I came back that I don't remember the first two weeks at all. I had a month off before I had to go back to the Bureau. I only woke up after I doubled my money at a poker table in Atlantic City, and then I was on a roll for the rest of the time. I came back with ten thousand dollars more than I started with, then jumped right back into work."

"That was when it started. Every other weekend, all weekend. My luck was fantastic for almost a year, and then I had to take out some dealers. Use my experience. Get the information I needed from one of them to get the rest of them rounded up so I could take them out like the targets they were. I did it, did my duty, woke up again Sunday after I'd won another five thousand."

"Regaining control after you crash," Brennan offered, recalling his words about hitting the ground after flying, letting go of the swings.

"Yeah." He stopped, closed his eyes again. This time, he took her hand as he stared at that darkened locked door, started rubbing his thumb in mindless circles over the back of her hand.

"I had to take out another dealer, the thing went south, my partner got clipped really badly though it wasn't my fault. But I felt like it was. And my luck went south with that last case. I never missed work, never blew off an assignment. At least I did that. But my credit went to hell in a handbasket. I sold off a lot of my stuff just so I could play every weekend. Sometimes I stayed up all night at underground games in the city during the week. And I got kicked out of three apartments in a row for not paying rent. Lost my car, ended up in increasingly shitty apartments. And I knew, I just knew I had to stop because if I didn't I'd lose work, the only other distraction I had."

He shook his head, then laughed bitterly. "I had friends who got the shit beat out of them by bookies or woke up dumped in an alley someplace with no idea how they got there. I just woke up from another blackout on a Monday morning having come back to my office straight from the bus station and slept on the floor. I ... knew I couldn't do it anymore, and that night I went to my first GA meeting. I got lucky, comparatively."

"That first meeting, someone talked about what it meant to get honest, and I realized that I had to get out, too. Where I was was no good, I was too close to Atlantic City, and I'd gotten into a rut. So I put in for a transfer. Moved to D.C.. Went to meetings. Met Becs. And ... then she didn't want to marry me and I found an underground game-- not this one, one with bigger stakes somewhere you were less likely to get shot. It started all over again and I'd just built my credit back up a bit. I did get the SA status, the transfer to major cases, and hoped to God Becs would change her mind, but she didn't. And she knew what was happening, told me to knock it off, and I couldn't. I got thrown out of my regular game when I couldn't afford the stake anymore and found this one. Real lowlifes-- people I'd arrest if I was at work. The week before Parker was born, though, I had that nightmare about that General. His little boy. And I wondered-- if I kept that up, kept coming here, was I any better? Someday, someone was going to take me out for beating them at their game, or just because I came out with a little money in their pocket. So I came and played one last game, then drove straight to a meeting after I emptied my wallet. I ... kind of felt like I had to start at the bottom again. I'd failed, all over again even though I thought that I'd kicked it that first time. I hadn't, though, because I didn't have something better to look forward to, something to hang on to when shit got rough again. Until Parker."

"When Parker came, I was glad I emptied my wallet, because ... this is going to sound sappy, but my hands were empty and all I had to do was hold him. There was nothing else to try to juggle. So I just ... held on to him, you know? It just ... hurt not to play every day for a long, long time-- and sometimes I'd come back here and park and it was like fighting fucking gravity not to go in. But I didn't. And ... eventually it got easier, because his eyes focused, and he smiled at me, and he knew who I was, and was excited to see me. I couldn't stand the thought of him not smiling at me because I was a loser, couldn't be strong enough for him to provide him with whatever Becs would let me."

Brennan watched as his face shifted from guilty and bleak, bitter and shamed to just sad, then wistful and proud as he told the story from the start to the end at the birth of his son.

"You didn't refuse to get up," she said, reminding him of what she'd said about failure only the night before. "You didn't fail, not like you think you did." She squeezed his hand, her heart in her throat for him as she watched that muscle at the end of his jaw clench and twitch, watched his forehead furrow in pained memory, listened to his voice tighten and rasp as he forced out words he might not have ever said aloud to anyone before her, right now. "You didn't," she said, then shifted sideways, leant over to kiss his cheek. "You got up again."

He let out a long sigh, almost a whine, his hand convulsing around hers to squeeze it tightly. "I think so. I hope so. But ... you know, it's been seven years now and I wonder sometimes. Would I start again if something happened to Parker? If something happened to you? And I didn't have one or both of you to hold on to? I don't know if I'd get up again-- I don't think I could."

Booth turned to face her fully then, the first time he'd done so during this whole ... confession. Though that wasn't quite the right word, since he wasn't really seeking forgiveness so much as understanding. His eyes, so often warm with sympathy for her confusion or upset, or twinkling with humor when they were merely teasing one another now pled for understanding and sympathy in return.

Brennan wasn't good at long reassuring speeches-- at least not off the pages of the books where she wrote. The written word, something she could keep silent and private if she so chose, were the means by which she'd come to express herself emotionally if she did so at all. She poured many of her repressed feelings and fantasies into her books, spilled her rhetorical guts into journals, but never admitted them aloud. She bit the words back between her teeth, because admitting emotional weakness was anathema to her, lest others begin to understand just how screwed up she was. And yet? Booth needed to hear aloud what she'd concluded when he was gone. Brennan did her best to compartmentalize when her partner was dead, but she'd barely gotten up off that floor after that first night of heaving, wracking, vomiting sobs that literally felt like they were tearing her apart. And each day had only been worse-- she slept less and less, worked more and more, even as work ceased to provide a distraction as time wore on.

She told Booth, then, what she'd concluded right before his funeral, when she admitted privately that she couldn't accept the finality of seeing his casket go into the ground, and had fallen back on her anthropological explanation for not wanting to go. "I know, Booth. I don't think I could have gone on doing without you either." She tried to give him an encouraging smile, wondering how it looked to Booth. Encouraging? Half-hearted or pitying? As scared as he probably was?

They shared a long look, one of their moments when time seemed to stand still while they stared at each other, eyes boring deep into the others'. This time, though, neither held back. Leaning forward carefully, literally shifting to sit on the edge of the seat, Brennan craned forward to meet Booth as he leaned in as well.

Their lips met in the middle, eyes fluttered closed, Brennan at least thinking _I'm not quite ready to look and see if this is really happening. I just want to believe that it is for the moment._

Each deepened the kiss, Booth's hand coming up to cup Brennan's cheek gently as his tongue sought hers, their lips melding. She tasted him anew despite their one kiss before. That kiss, so surprising as their lips meeting shocked her to her core, was utterly different. This kiss, this new taste informed by the beginning of a real understanding of what they were doing and where they might go, still nearly undid her-- but this time it was in anticipation of what might come. It wasn't shock this time-- it was yearning for _her_ Booth. Hers, just as much as she was his.

She sighed into the kiss, leaned into his hand at her cheek, then parted for air, the loss of his lips on hers painful. Blinking, she looked at him to see a similar look of longing and hope on his face-- and he seemed to be as affected as she. "Ready to go?" she asked softly, meaning more than just leaving this physical place.

"Yeah," he said, smiling with a bit of wonder as he flicked one more glance across the street to those locked doors. "I think I really am."


	27. Chapter 27

Despite the fact that he felt like he'd been talking forever, it was still early when they got back to Bones' place-- sometimes Booth was just setting down to paperwork this time of night, but here he was at the end of a day with no work, just Bones, and he was as tired as he'dve been if he'd been running newbies over the course at Quantico or chasing perps.

Bones seemed okay, not too uncomfortable, and she'd straightened out a bit more, though he'd seen her pop that pill at the table before they went out. "I ... ah ... are you going to work tomorrow?" he asked as they took the elevator back up to her place. His hand at her back twitched with the need to pull her back into his arms and kiss her until both their knees turned to jello.

"I might," she responded. "I have a physical therapy evaluation at lunchtime, and thought I might go in beforehand for a few hours, then see how I feel afterward."

He nodded. She'd already admitted she'd overdone it once this week, he'd try to keep his mouth shut about warning her not to do it again. "Well, if you don't, I called Hank-- he has a masseuse he works with, he says she's really good with necks and shoulders."

She gave him a thoughtful look then said "That might be useful-- I'll take her name and see what the therapist says."

"Okay," he said, then found himself lost for words even as he licked his lips-- they were still tingling from when they'd kissed in the truck. He felt completely lightheaded. Lighthearted, too. She let them in to her place, let him take her coat, set her own things aside. His phone rang then, and she nodded as she headed off to her bathroom or bedroom, one or the other.

Looking down at the ID, he debated, then decided he'd better pick up.

"Sweets," he said, trying not to sound stern. The kid had tried to help, even with the experimenting on Bones thing. Hell, he had actually helped Booth sort out some of his own thoughts, even if he didn't quite believe all the things Sweets had said when he was trying to provide reassurance.

"Hi ... uh ... Agent Booth. I just ... I stopped by your office today and you weren't in and I wondered...." His voice trailed off, uncertain and really concerned—not intellectually curious, like he sometimes sounded when they were all three in session.

"Yeah. I called in sick," Booth replied. "Ended up helping Bones with some stuff she needed last night and today. I might be in tomorrow, I'm not 100% sure on that yet."

"Oh. Good," the kid said, sounding relieved. "Is ... uh ... everything..." he asked, then trailed off again. The kid must really be freaked out by this whole scenario if he was losing the ends of his sentences like that. Usually he could talk through whatever was freaking him out-- Booth had to give him credit for that.

"Getting there, Sweets. Thanks. Although we're going to have another talk about the my being dead thing after this is all settled down. Bones told me what you did."

Booth could hear him audibly swallow, and decided to show a little mercy. "Don't worry, Sweets. If I was going to shoot you, I'dve done it already."

The kid swallowed again, said "Alright," and fell silent.

Booth wrapped up the call. "Look. I appreciate your calling and the talk the other day, really, but I'm going to go now, I've got some more stuff to do here. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay," Sweets replied, sounding a little more heartened by Booth's thanks. "Talk to you later."

When he flipped shut the phone, Booth could hear Bones talking on her phone, so he looked around the apartment to see what else might need doing. He recopied the name and number of Hank's massage lady onto some paper from the notepad he always kept in his pocket, then unloaded the dishwasher. Recalling the laundry he'd started earlier, he went down the hall past Bones' room to the utility closet and porch at the back of her place, then started folding her towels and trying not to fantasize about the skimpy lace panties and bras she'd left in a lingerie bag in the hamper. He'd set them aside in their bag after he'd washed them, recalling how Becs whaled on him once for running her fancy things through the drier, then wondered if he should hang them up. _Washing her underwear's one thing, taking it out and hanging it up piece by piece is maybe a little premature at this stage of things, _he thought to himself.

Walking back past her room, he heard Bones say "No, I'll tell him," then pause for a moment. When he entered her bathroom and shoved the towels back in the closet, he heard her say "Ange. Let me take care of disclosing such personal details in a way that makes sense to me" in a really annoyed tone of voice. Ah. He'd better duck out before he overheard anymore. Given the fact that Bones did seem pissed that Angela'd gone and spilled the beans on practically everything, he'd better let her tell him whatever it was they were talking about in her own time. She'd been forthcoming and more reassuring than she usually was, like she was really trying to be "less tight lipped and more emotionally expressive" as she'd said when she'd first let him in so he could start pouring his guts out.

By this time he was fidgeting around her kitchen, wondering what he should do. He'd already made her soup and bought her enough groceries that she'd have food for breakfast and meals for a week. He'd written down the number for Hank's massage lady. He assumed she wouldn't be comfortable driving-- he could offer to give her a ride into work in the morning, and to take her to her appointment, but the lab was right on the Metro and she might turn down a ride if she was feeling like she needed time by herself. He couldn't assume-- wouldn't assume-- that he could stay here again tonight, although he could since he had another suit in the car if he decided to go in to work. But maybe he should stay home, just in case? If she was going to work, though, then he should go too, even if it was just for a few hours. He was sure the paperwork piles were breeding like rabbits—it never took long.

He was dithering again, but he couldn't quite stop himself without some specific thing to occupy his hands or mind. Maybe he could make her something else for her to eat for lunch or dinner besides the soup, so she wouldn't get sick of leftovers. His vegetarian recipe repertoire was pretty limited, though, and he wasn't sure he knew where she kept her cookbooks-- if she even had any. And he was pretty sure if he tried to cook her tofu he'd screw it up the first time. Weird foods like that took practice.

"Booth?" he heard her call then.

He hustled down to her room to find Bones standing next to her closet, closed off by double-wide doors. He'd caught a peek inside this morning and afternoon when he'd been coming and going, but had avoided looking in any further since she kept the doors mostly closed.

"Yeah, Bones? What's up?" he asked.

Ducking her head and not looking straight at him, she said "There's a large aluminum suitcase at the back of the closet on the left. Would you please bring it out?"

"Sure," he said, curious and a little afraid. Was she planning on going somewhere? And if she was running, was she seriously making him help her pack?

She stood to the side and pushed back her clothes as he reached in and grabbed the handle. _Heavy, it's full of something, _he thought to himself. More carefully, he hauled it out then looked at it. It was huge-- one of those suitcases people used when they were going someplace for a month and didn't care how much it cost to check monster baggage. It weighed a ton, too, and he wondered what she was keeping in there.

Bones let her clothes fall back into place, and closed the door most of the way. "Would you please take that out into the dining room and put it up on the table?"

He did as she asked, glad the behemoth luggage had wheels and a handle so he didn't have to lift it too much. He hefted it up and set it down gently so it wouldn't scratch the expensive cherry wood of the table, wondering all over again what was inside. Turning at the sound of Bones approaching behind him, he saw she had a small key in her hand and a near-panicked look on her face. He pulled her into a hug immediately. "Hey, what's the matter, Bones?" he asked, rubbing her back gently. How could she go from sweet and the most astoundingly best kisser ever to completely freaked out in under an hour?

She just breathed heavily against his chest for long minutes before letting go, then continued on to the suitcase and turned the small key in the lock.

"Sweets was right in some ways," she said, her voice shaky. "I am wicked literal. And this is my emotional baggage, the metaphorical skeletons in my closet. Except mine's not a skeleton, it's a suitcase."

She flipped back the lid and stood back so Booth could look. What he saw practically knocked him over, and he couldn't help but look further, though as yet he didn't touch anything.

There were scrapbooks and letters and shoe boxes what looked like Ziploc bags full of photos, all sealed in vacuum-sealed plastic sleeves. But the vast bulk of the suitcase's components were what looked like diaries-- older notebooks and things like a teenaged girl or younger might keep, lab notebooks, random notepads and black-bound volumes that looked expensive and would fit in Bones' briefcase. In fact, he thought he'd seen one more than once when she'd sent him to get gloves or an evidence bag for her.

Her voice shaky, her expression still slightly panicked, and her posture nothing but tense, Bones looked at him again before looking away and speaking. "I've kept a diary since I was thirteen, and to the extent I was able, wrote something every day. They're grouped by year," she said, pointing to the notebooks and journals still wrapped in vacuum-sealed plastic.

"These," she motioned, to the things that looked more like scrapbooks, "are scrapbooks, also by year. There are some letters and things, too, but those aren't particularly exciting, just ... records."

She took a deep breath, then pointed to the last row of what she'd indicated were journals, five by seven inch blackbound journals.

"These are the ones I wrote the first two years we were working together," she said pointing to two plastic-wrapped sets. "These ones," she said, pointing out a dozen or so journals that weren't yet sealed in plastic, "are from this past year or so."

She paused then, and gathered a deeper breath. Smiling bitterly, she waved a theatrical hand over the suitcase. "I do compartmentalize-- literally. But it's not true I don't think about the things that have happened. I just like my privacy when I do it."

He stood there, stunned for long moments by the fact that after what he'd done to her, the way he'd violated her trust, she'd essentially invited him to read everything personal she'd ever written, including everything she'd ever written about him and what they'd been through. The responsibility of it was not overwhelming or unwelcome, it was just unexpected, and more than he'd hoped for so soon after so nearly ruining things altogether. "Bones ..." he began. "You don't have to ..."

"I never knew what your reaction might be if I told you some of the things that are in here, and I'm pretty sure I'll do a bad job explaining it. Better you read the unfiltered data rather than have me try to summarize it, although of course they're already skewed from my perceptions of them at the time they were happening. But ... it's all there, anyway. The last five are from right before you were shot until right before Saturday night." she said, her eyes glimmering. "I'll tell you the rest if you have any questions, if it's not all too much once you've dug in a little."

"You want me to read it now?" he asked, wondering. There was a week's worth of stuff in here if he read it all. Not that he wouldn't, but she was inviting him inside her head and he wanted to make sure she set all the ground rules. He'd always found her books riveting-- this was going to be totally different, and way more important than the little glimpses of her he caught from her books. These were not written for a mass-media audience. They'd been written for an audience of one—and now two. That last crack in his heart sealed over.

"No," she said shyly. "Not if you don't want to. You don't have to read them if ..." she started to say, then found herself cut off when he kissed her, clasping her face in his hands.

"I'll read them," he said when he came up for air, stunned by the sensation of kissing her and his amazement at the level of trust she'd just displayed. "But you look kind of tired and you're going to want to get up early and maybe you can sleep on it tonight before you decide you're certain you want me making fun of your thirteen year old handwriting. I bet even you put bubbles and hearts over your "i"s."

She snorted, looking far less panicked as he accepted her offer and tried to lighten the moment. "I did _not _do such an infantile thing. Though I will admit my handwriting has improved since then. And ... I won't change my mind," she said, shy all over as she looked over his head and not at him.

He hoped her mind stayed unchanged. Oh, how he hoped so.

"Are you staying or going," she asked, ducking her head again and not meeting his eye.

"Um... whatever you want," he replied. "I could ... uh ... stay and drive you to the lab tomorrow and go home and change and go to work for a bit and if you want then I could take you to your appointment and then take you back to work or here, whatever you want." He was babbling, but he wanted to leave it up to her even as he desperately wished she'd ask him to stay.

"That would work," she said, "if you want, that is." Booth suddenly realized this new discomfort of hers wasn't just these kisses he still felt poleaxed by-- _she_ was worried about what _he'd_ think of her if he read all this stuff, when her trust was the most precious thing in the world to him, right there with his son's. She was as worried about this as he was-- and he suddenly felt the metaphorical ground firm up completely beneath him. _She was letting him all the way in_.

He felt a smile split his face. "Yeah. I'll stay." His _as long as you let me_ stayed silent for now.


	28. Chapter 28

**_Thanks to everyone who PM'd me wanting to know when I was going to post anything, much less a chapter in this one. The muse had me stuck for a bit, but she's tap-dancing through my brain for this story again. Hopefully ch. 29 will come along soon._**

_**To all you Serendipity-lovers, there is another chapter in the works, but again, I was feeling a little stuck and have some re-working of what I've already written since it just feels kind of ... meh. And I would hate to give you a meh chapter.**_

_**And ... to the kind and anonymous Robert, many thanks for your lovely comments of late.  
**_

* * *

_Yes, Warm Booth is definitely an excellent remedy, _Brennan thought to herself as she woke to find there were still ten more minutes on the alarm clock-- and that yet again, she'd hardly moved in the night because Booth was so warm and solid and held her so firmly. She closed her eyes again and let herself enjoy the fact that it felt like she had a warm oven all over her back, one with the added bonus of that special Seeley Booth smell. _His pheromones would make a best-selling aftershave. But I'd have to seriously hurt anyone who tried to kiss him once they came on the original source. No one's going to go around getting up close and personal to my Booth's pheromones besides me._

_My Booth. How alpha-female of me._

Booth shifted and mumbled, jamming his nose straight into her neck from where he'd already burrowed his face in her hair. She wondered why-- most men tended to dislike it when one's hair got in their faces, but a slumbering Booth seemed not just to mind but to actively seek it.

_Maybe it's like dogs sniffing crotches. What a romantic I am._

She snorted at her train of thought, and he mumbled again. She cracked her eye and saw there were two more minutes to go. She might as well turn the alarm off and sit up, at least then the jarring sound of the radio wouldn't disturb Booth. Reaching over, she flipped back the button, only for Booth's arms around her waist to tighten and tug her back toward him firmly. Not too quickly or too hard-- just firmly and decisively.

"Nnnrrh," he said, sticking his nose again into her hair, but this time kissing the back of her neck. "Morning's bad."

"I like mornings," she said. _Especially ones that start with you in my bed kissing my neck. Damn, these painkillers are turning me into a mushy romantic._

"Mornings are good for one thing," he rumbled, in what seemed to be his usual morning gravelly tone. "Breakfast. Otherwise, they're a pain."

"So ... afternoons are good for lunch, and evenings are good for dinner, and after 10 pm's good for Thai?"

"Anytime's good for Thai," he chuckled, his voice warm in her ear, "but otherwise, yeah. Knew you were a genius."

"Well," she said, rolling onto her back so she could look at him and think yet again how weird and wonderful it was for him to be there. "You can go get a good thing going and start some coffee and make something for breakfast while I take a shower."

A smile quirked the edge of his mouth. "Yes, sir, Sergeant Bones, sir." He looked at her a long moment, his arms still circling her waist, then pressed a soft kiss on her lips. She blinked at the lovely surprise. It had been a while since she'd had a good morning kiss, maybe not since Sully-- the other men she'd dated either left after they were done, or she did-- or they weren't big on kissing. Which had been fine with her, since she hadn't wanted entanglements. _I was entangled aplenty with Booth-thoughts, even if I thought that I wasn't._

She slid out of bed, pulled her robe off her door, and watched with amusement as Booth flopped on his back, scratching his hair and groaning. "Now I have to get up," he pouted at her, "you're not in the bed."

She felt an idiot grin split her face. _If he keeps saying things like that my brain will __gelatinize__ and ooze from my nose._

His answering grin was answer enough. He clearly intended to turn her to goo. _I'll probably let him as long as he keeps kissing me. Well, not at work, that's not professional, but is it unprofessional between the lab or the Hoover and a scene, when we're in the car? Does en route count as the workplace?_

Shaking her head, she went off to the shower.

* * *

When Brennan emerged, fifteen minutes later and ready but for changing from her robe into her clothes, Booth was cooking oatmeal and there was the heavenly scent and comforting sound of coffee gurgling into the pot. "You're so fast," he said, his back to her.

"There's no need to spend more time than necessary getting ready," she responded, pulling her hair back behind her ears from where it had fallen after she'd dried it. He turned to regard her and said "Hair and makeup and everything? That's like a Women's World Record, Bones."

She ducked her head, said "it's a habit," and went to pour them both coffee. Stirring the cream and sugars into their coffees, she slid his to his right elbow and took hers to her counter, hooking her feet under the lower rungs of her stool as she watched him make breakfast in a t-shirt and boxers. She admired his exceptionally well-formed legs and gluteus maximus, reflecting that while she'd had prior opportunities to view his arms and torso before, she'd never yet seen him in anything but pants.

"Checking out my ass, Bones?" he asked without turning, then sipped his coffee.

"Well, yes..." she said, not sheepish at all. He _was_ very well formed.

Booth, however, choked on his coffee as he turned around to look at her wide-eyed. "I was kidding," he managed, once he'd swallowed his coffee. "I just meant you were quiet ..."

"Well, I was checking you out," she said, smirked at him, then said "oatmeal's burning."

"Everybody's a smart ass," he grumbled.

"Ah," she said, feeling increasingly mirthful, "but not every one has such a cute smart ass as you." The pleased, surprised look on his face as he plopped oatmeal into their bowls made her wonder. _When was the last time I complimented him, whether or not it had to do with his physical attractiveness?_

_

* * *

  
_

Despite what was a comparatively late start for Brennan, they still managed to make it to the lab not long after eight thirty. Brennan let herself out of the car before Booth could hop out and let her, and he was making a cranky face when she came around to meet him at the front of the truck. "What time's your appointment again? One?" he said, forehead furrowed.

"Right," she said. "Quarter of one should be fine."

He thought for a moment, nodded, then said "I'll see you later, then," and looked at her as though he was trying to decide something. She wondered if it was the same thing she was trying to decide.

_If I'm not in the lab yet then I'm hardly at work. _"Hey," she said, poking his chest. "You'd better give me a kiss before you go or I'll karate chop you."

He burst into a smile, bent his head to clasp the sides of her face, and gave her a sweet kiss that made her forehead tingle. _How does he do that? I'm sure my nervous system is growing new neurons and axons specifically for Booth to set on fire. Well, at least he looks a little stunned too, _she thought as she watched this goofy grin spread on his face.

"Twelve forty five," she said, parting.

"Twelve thirty!" he yelled after her. "And eat lunch!"

_That's my Booth. Bossing me around again._

_

* * *

  
_

Brennan made it almost all the way into her office before Angela came hurtling down the corridor, the one with windows out to the front of the lab where Booth dropped her off. "_Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie_!" she yelled, causing everyone else in the lab to look up in alarm.

"Yes, Angela?" she asked, as Cam and Hodgins looked on.

"Was that what I thought it was?" her friend asked breathlessly.

"Booth dropping me off? Yes." She teased it out, deliberately. Though she knew Angela meant well, her repeated and sometimes embarrassing attempts to goad Brennan into kissing, sleeping with, or getting together with Booth had sometimes annoyed Brennan, and she wasn't going to put an end to the speculation by simply coming out and engaging in a full-on public display of affection right here in the lab.

Angela rolled her eyes. "Bren. Do I have to pull it out of you? Was that, or was that not, you kissing Seeley Booth in the front of the lab?"

Brennan said dryly, "No." Waiting a beat, she said slowly, "As he was the initiator, I would have to say instead that it was Booth kissing me. Sorry to disappoint you, Angela." And with a smile, she walked into her office, set down her bag, and turned on her computer as she watched the entire lab grind to a standstill. In only thirty seconds, however, people started removing their wallets and proceeding over to Jack's station. _Wonder when he started the betting pool? He worked fast if he only set it up two nights ago._

* * *

When Booth arrived, Brennan was up on the platform, reviewing a set of remains that Wendell had been working on. Dr. Saroyan had been relieved and skirting around her as if she was afraid Brennan was one of those bottles of Coke her father was always dropping Mentos in for the kids in the Science Club. Angela had subsided after Brennan spoke with her for a few minutes, and Jack left her alone except for a wink, a leer, and a "Hey, Lefty."

She made some calls, checked some emails, came and went from the platform a few times to check on Wendell's progress, and walked down to the Bone Room to review some x-rays she'd been asked to consult on for the CIA. Her neck and arm didn't bother her too much, the half a Valium she'd taken at the start of the morning still seemed to be working, and she tried to stay mindful of her posture and how long she'd been standing before making sure she took a short rest. She had no desire to repeat how stiff and sore she'd been the other night.

So Booth's "Bones!" accompanied by his usual loud clap of the hands didn't startle her when she looked at her watch and saw the time. "It's twelve-twenty nine, Booth," she said. "You're early."

He let himself up to the platform clad in jeans, a button-down shirt and a casual jacket, not one of his suits. _He must not be planning on going back to the office today, whether I do or not. _Wendell, who'd been on spring break and had missed all of the drama, looked somewhat surprised at Booth's lack of a suit, but said nothing other than "What's with the shirt? I heard it was Hawaiian shirt Friday at the Hoover, none of that stripey shirt shit."

Booth, who'd grown close with boy during their hockey league, grinned and slapped him lightly on the back of the head. "Nah. Hawaiian shirts are only in summer. You've got to wear stripes between Labor Day and Memorial Day."

"Ah..." said Wendell, affecting to be wise. "We just have blowing pigs up day. No Hawaiian shirts for us."

"Seeing as every day around here is blowing pigs up or blowing sea chimps up or blowing something up around here day," Cam groused as she walked onto the platform, "I don't see why I should approve Hawaiian shirts, too."

Brennan noted one last thing on the tablet of data Wendell collected, then said dryly, "I'd have to agree. Given Dr. Hodgins' tendency to blow up, freeze, or cook Spam in pursuit of answers on cases, I think that allowing Hawaiian shirts would encourage his mad scientist tendencies overmuch, Dr. Saroyan. The next thing we know, he'll be insisting that grass skirts will put us in the right frame of mind for staff discussions, and want champagne in a tiny bubbler instead of a water cooler."

Straight-faced, she looked at Booth, who was clearly struggling to contain a guffaw, then glanced at Cam innocently. "I don't think I'll be back this afternoon, so have a good weekend everyone."

Jack's loud belly-laugh as she reached the last step on the platform, Angela's burst of bubbling laughter, Cam's silence, and Wendell's "I don't know what that means," followed her into her office as she doffed her lab coat, let Booth help her on with her jacket, and picked up her purse.

"Don Ho, Mr. Bray," she said with a smile as she came out and viewed his still-puzzled expression. "Look it up."

Cam just stood there, shocked. "Did she ... just make a joke?" Brennan heard right before the lab doors whisked shut behind them.

"Nice one, Bones, real nice."

"I thought so," she said, chuckling. "In any event, Hawaiian shirts would not be proper lab attire, because the short sleeves wouldn't adequately protect laboratory staff from accidental spills and gaseous escapes. But Cam already knows that."

* * *

Brennan returned after her hour's evaluation and initial treatment to find Booth in the waiting room, fidgeting and flipping too quickly through outdated magazines. "Should have brought something to do," he groused as they walked out.

"You could have run some errands," she offered. "You didn't have to wait."

"No," he said quickly. "What if you got out early? Or needed something? Or had a question?" He was anxious at the thought that leaving might prompt some emergency on her part, and though it was more alpha male than she cared for him to exhibit, she thought that some of it was guilt, plain and simple. He felt like he couldn't leave until he knew the prognosis.

Brennan decided to put him out of his misery. "The therapist said there's nothing wrong with the nerve, and she's given me some stretches to do at home. She's going to have me come in three times a week for the first week or two, and then see how I'm doing. She doesn't think I'll need more than four weeks, all told." The invisible weight on his shoulders lifted a little, the frown lines at his eyes eased a bit. "She also said I can have as many massages as I want, and is even familiar with your friend's masseuse."

"Good," he replied. "If you want, I could set something up for you for this weekend?"

She nodded. "You have Parker, correct?"

"Yeah. Pick him up at seven," he said, holding the door to the truck open for her. "Angela said you didn't have lunch," he said then, looking half-stern and half worried that he was pushing it.

"Of course she did," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"You want the diner?" he asked as he got in and started the truck.

She thought. "I don't think so. I think I want to go home and sit on my couch, I'm nice and loose right now and sitting in one of those chairs will just tighten me up again."

He nodded and they drove in silence, though it wasn't uncomfortable, and he seemed far less anxious now than he seemed even this morning. "My office didn't burn down," he said laconically at one point.

Brennan replied, "Well, no, it couldn't have, because we'd have seen the smoke from the lab."

He shot her a look before he said "Aren't you little Miss Wisecrack today."

She snorted, pleased that he got it. "Well, maybe I'm just glad I have something to be happy about."

She could have fried an egg at the heat of his smile.

* * *

They got home and Brennan reheated some of Booth's tomato soup for them while Booth lugged her laundry back to her bedroom and put away everything that he'd folded. Brennan snorted to herself when she went down to the laundry room to see he hadn't touched the things in her lingerie bag once he'd washed them. _Always the gentleman. And he knew not to put them in the dryer._

They idly discussed his plans with Parker for the weekend, including some springtime soccer league in which the boy was engaged. As they talked, Brennan noticed that her emotional baggage was missing. _He must have taken it at some point after he dropped me off this morning. Well, better that way, I suppose. I might throw myself across it or try to bar the door if he did it while he was here. But it's fitting-- Booth has always carted away my emotional baggage when I'm not looking. _Shaking her head, she drew her attention back to the conversation, then noted the time.

"Do you have housecleaning or other things you need to do?" she asked Booth.

He himself looked at the clock then, and a look of worried calculation passed over his face. "Yeah, actually, I do. My place is kind of a pit right now."

"Well, then you should get going," Brennan suggested. "Once you're done you can call that masseuse for me, have her arrange to come sometime between noon and three tomorrow? Angela and I are going to have breakfast first thing in the morning."

Booth nodded, a look of relieved purpose on his face that Brennan was giving him something to do that would be helpful to her. "Yeah, I'll do that, good. I'll make sure she calls you to confirm the time." He got up, gathered the dishes, and placed them into the dishwasher, then turned to see Brennan smiling at him saying "shoo," and waving him toward the door.

He half-smiled and did so, stopping short to look at her, a look of doubt on his face all over again. "Can I ... uh ... call you ..."

Brennan arched an eyebrow. "Booth. We've always talked most days. I would be hurt if that changed."

His look of relief was clear as sun breaking through clouds. "Okay."

"Go," Brennan said, after tugging his head down to kiss him. "Tell Parker I said hi," she murmured over his lips, then turned him, opened the door, and pushed him out into the hall with a smack on his well-muscled and shapely gluteus maximus. She chuckled at his girlish yelp of surprise, loud enough to be heard behind the door.

* * *

Brennan's weekend was essentially uneventful. She spent Friday night by herself, catching up on emails and paper-based work that would allow her to sit while she reviewed x-rays, conducted peer reviews of colleagues' papers, and otherwise work quietly. Saturday morning, Angela appeared and dragged her off to their breakfast spot.

"Brennan! Angela!" cried Tony, their regular waiter. "We missed you last Sunday! The place was black with woe without your beautiful and gorgeous sunshine to light us all up."

Brennan smiled at the effusive flirtation. She enjoyed this cafe very much-- the lighthearted banter with the gay male waiters was always refreshing. Complimentary with the only expectation being humor and banter. "You mean you missed our beautiful tips."

"That too," he said with a grin. "But mostly, I missed the chance to lord over the rest of the girls that I yet again had a famous author and hot artist in my section and that they were the most gorgeous gals in the place."

Angela laughed. "And for that, you get lots of alcohol to ring up the tab. Bellinis, Tony, and bring me a double. It's been a long week."

Orders placed and Brennan sipping her own Bellini slowly so as to gauge any possible negative interaction with her painkillers, Angela started digging in to get Brennan to tell her what had happened. Brennan answered more patiently this time, the warm colored walls of the cafe, the ample sunlight, the jazz band and numerous plants and flowers putting her in a more effusive state of mind.

"Suffice it to say that Booth and I had several long conversations about why he reacted the way that he did. I understand far better now why, and though his way of reacting to stressors is very different than mine, it's something that makes sense of other things about him I didn't understand in the past."

"Like what?" Angela pressed, clearly anxious to know more.

Brennan bit her lip. "I don't think I feel comfortable saying more. Booth has always been very private and if he was inclined to share this information with others, I would want him to do it himself or give me explicit permission to do so. As he hasn't, I don't think I should. But ... he both talked about and showed me some things that give me a much better framework within which to understand why he reacts to things a certain way. I think I will be better-equipped to ask the right questions when he seems to be getting upset."

Angela took a long, thoughtful sip of her first Bellini. "And what about you?"

Brennan nodded. "I told him a few things directly. Asked a few questions about why he reacted the way that he did. Told him why I didn't understand certain things that he does, or why he did them this time. Tried to make sure he knew that I was listening. And completely melted down on him once when the subject of his death came up."

"Oh. How'd he handle that?" Angela asked, worriedly. Brennan had already chewed her out about sharing that information with Booth without her permission, and still seemed to be conscious of Brennan's caution to let Brennan be the one to decide what and when and how much to disclose.

Brennan felt her mouth curve up into a smile. "Well, he put me to bed after I fell asleep and when I woke up he'd made homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese to supper."

Angela "awwwweed" despite herself. Brennan snorted. "Yes. It is illogical to find myself touched by something so almost stereotypically sweet and romantic, but ..."

"He's Booth," her friend said. "It's different."

Their food arrived then, and both women took several bites of their food, Brennan particularly enjoying her whole-grain pancakes with fruit coulis and creme fraiche. "Booth was horrified to find out that we ate somewhere else besides the diner," she said with a smile.

Angela looked up from her Eggs Benedict. "He may like the waitresses there falling all over him, but he wouldn't get how nice it is to be called gorgeous three or four times in a meal."

"That's what I said," Brennan grinned.

They chatted more idly then until Brennan noted that Booth had arranged for a masseuse for this afternoon, and his attentiveness yesterday.

"Honey," Angela said. "He's going to be completely itchy for a bit about not letting you out of his sight-- just because he's got to be feeling like if he leaves you might change your mind while he's gone."

"I suppose," Brennan mused. "Though he shouldn't. After all, we did share my bed these past few nights and we've already said that we loved each other."

"WHAT!" Angela sputtered and sprayed her Bellini all over the table, just missing her eggs. She choked for a moment before recovering herself, and dabbing at her face and her table with a napkin. "Good thing I ordered a double," she groused setting aside the now empty first champagne flute and taking a deep sip of the other.

"Okay. What? Spill. You don't just drop a bomb like that."

Brennan stifled her amusement at watching Angela's reaction. Her friend deserved it a bit for all the years of nagging. _A little champagne through the nose never hurt anyone, and gets me some of my own back. _She then proceeded to tell Angela in a more concise version of how she'd banged her elbow in the tub, how Booth had helped her and then given her that backrub, and how he'd gotten in with her on her own invitation.

"I think he thought I was asleep when he said it, but I wasn't, so I said it back, and then didn't want him to think I was just drugged, so I said it again so he would be sure. And then he stayed the next night and slept in the bed with me as well. He's very warm, I must say," she mused, smiling. "And smells very nice. And is quite comfortable to lie on, though many men aren't."

Angela's jaw had dropped as Brennan went on, then dropped further as Brennan emerged from her reverie, smiled directly at Angela, then said "Come on, Angela, I know you want to."

In a second, Angela had jumped out of her chair, pulled Brennan up gently, and jumped up and down with her in her arms. "Oh my God! Sweetie! Finally!"

After a moment, she stopped and looked around, embarrassed by the show they must be giving the rest of the cafe. Brennan merely looked at her friend amused, then sat down, taking a sip of her cocktail. As she put hers down and Angela still sipped at hers, she said "And he performs wonderful oral sex."

This time, Angela sprayed her champagne all over her eggs. "WHAT!!!"

Brennan burst out laughing. "No, I'm just messing with you, Angela. No oral sex. Yet."

Tony came over at this point to survey the champagne covered table and food. "Now you have to tell me the dirt, because whatever it is, it's got to be good."

Angela smiled. "Yeah, sorry about the tablecloth, and can I have another Bellini and some more eggs? Bren just has finally gotten together with that hot man meat partner of hers, and she's being vicious in dragging it out for me."

Tony just smiled at Brennan. "You go, girl. I saw a picture of you two in the paper. He is one fine piece of man."

Brennan smiled. "I'll tell him you said so. I do enjoy embarrassing him. He's so cute when he blushes."

Angela sniggered. "You do that on purpose?"

Brennan shook her head. "Angela. Of course. I've got to get something back with all that pop cultural stuff he keeps correcting me on. Embarrassing him with sex talk in the workplace is a never fail situation."

"Honey, don't ever change."

Their breakfast resumed, the two woman talked more before Brennan disclosed the subject of her literal emotional baggage.

"Hunh," was Angela's initial response. "I always wondered what that was, but I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would."

"Old habits die hard," Brennan responded. "You know I tell you as much as I tell anyone, and that I tell you things I've never told Booth," she said, suddenly worried Angela might feel supplanted or snubbed."

Angela shook her head. "No, don't worry about it. That's what friends are for. Asking questions and knowing when not to. Right?"

"Right," Brennan said with relief. "Now ... my masseuse is coming at one. Do you want me to see if she can do you as well?"

Angela smiled. "I don't know. Is it on Booth?"

Brennan thought. "I suppose it is-- I figured he wanted to do it as something concrete to ameliorate the lingering physical effects. So I'll split your session with you to the extent the masseuse has time, alright?"

"I'm not going to argue. I haven't had a good massage in too long."

* * *

"Oh God," groaned Angela when it was her turn for her massage. "Soooo good. Do you have a girlfriend?" she continued as the masseuse worked on her shoulders, arms and hands. Anne, the masseuse, snorted.

"Sorry, I don't swing that way. Though if I did, I'd take you up on the offer."

The three women laughed. Brennan, feeling like happy silly putty, lay on the couch in the warm sweatshirt and pants Anne insisted she wear after her massage was finished-- "keep those muscles warm"-- and watched lazily as Anne worked on Angela on her portable table. The massage she'd received had been wonderful-- just deep enough to work at some of the stiffened fascia without impinging the still-sensitive nerves, and warming and working out all the unevenly knotted muscles lumped in her neck and back. She was truly skilled, and had surprised Brennan when she found and rooted out bunched spots even in her hips, not just her gluteus maximus. "You were compensating so much in your stance that you were doing more than just affecting your lower back," she said, then reminded Brennan about some reclined stretches she could do for her lower back that wouldn't require vigorous use of her improving right arm, but would allow for the gentle stretching and extension the therapist recommended.

Her phone rang as Angela continued to receive her massage, and she rolled up to grab it from the back of the table before lying back down. "Hello, Booth," she practically purred, so languid and warm from her massage.

"Uh ... hi," he said, sounding surprised at her tone. "Everything okay?"

"Mmmm," Brennan said. "I'm hiring Anne to be my personal masseuse."

"Oh," he said, then chuckled. "Good. Glad she was good." Just then, Angela gave out another appreciative, sexual-sounding groan. "What was that?" he asked, tentatively.

Brennan chuckled. "Angela's getting a massage right now. She hit on Anne but Anne politely declined."

Booth laughed more loudly then. "Of course. How are you?"

"Fine," Brennan said, meaning it. "How's Parker?"

They discussed his game, their activities the night before, Parker's curiosity as to whether Brennan would be joining them at the zoo in another week as she sometimes did, then their activities for tonight and tomorrow. "How about you, Bones?" he finally asked.

"I plan on eating the rest of the leftovers tonight and going to bed early, and then Jack asked if I would review the data sets for a paper he is considering submitting for publication, so we are meeting for lunch tomorrow to do that."

"Hunh," was his response. "You guys do that a lot?"

Brennan chose to ignore the somewhat suspicious and concerned tone in his voice. "Yes, though usually it's in the lounge at work or in my office. But since I left early yesterday and the submission date is Wednesday for the particular journal he wants to publish in, tomorrow is makes sense."

"Yeah, it does," he said, sounding mollified. There was a sound in the background, and then a "Parker wants to say hello."

"Fine," she said, both amused and somewhat hesitant. She liked Parker-- he was an engaging boy with good manners but enough mischief to prove that he was a normal, happy child-- which was a real testament to Booth's parenting, that the seriousness of his job and his not infrequent injuries hadn't left the boy hesitant or overly solemn. But she was concerned what his reaction would be to hear that she and Booth were going to try a relationship-- she was hardly mother material, though she had been entertaining the idea more as of late.

"Bones?"

"Hello, Parker," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm good!" he said, then proceeded to grill her about joining them next weekend at the zoo. "There's going to be a special thing at the snake house, it's going to be coooooollllll. You're going to come, right?"

Brennan swallowed the yelp the mere idea provoked in her. "Sure," she gritted out. She could hardly admit to the child that she was afraid of snakes despite the fact that she routinely helped his father shoot criminals.

She engaged the child in some more conversations, then laughed as Parker said "What's that noise?" as Angela let out one particularly gratified groan under Anne's hands.

"That's Angela. She's getting her back rubbed and the lady who's going it hit a really sore spot and got rid of it."

"It sounds like the noise Mommy makes when she and Brent go to bed," he said, curiously.

Brennan's "Oh," was cut off by a "'Scuse me, bud."

She laughed then, and said "Perhaps you should talk with him. I'll talk with you later."

He snorted. "Bye. Love you." The last was said hesitantly, and Brennan smiled.

"Love you, too." She thought she hung up before Angela yelled "Sweetie!" at the top of her lungs.


	29. Chapter 29

**_Okay. Will we read some of what's in those diaries? Will we see how Booth reacts when he reads them? Will there ever be sweet apologetic weepy love making? In a word, yes._**

* * *

"See you, Bub," Booth said, coming around to help his son down from the high seat of the truck. "Be good at the party and for your Mom, okay?"

Parker, rolling his eyes, said "I'm always good, Dad," then reached back into the truck to grab the brightly-wrapped birthday present he'd brought for this Sunday-afternoon birthday party. At least they'd had time for early Mass and then breakfast, so they'd had four hours together before he had to let Parker go so much earlier than he would have preferred.

"Your Mom's going to pick you up, but if she's late or there's a problem, you call me, okay?"

Parker smiled-- Booth was sure he was indulging his worry-wart father. "Okay, promise." He clambered at Booth's waist hard enough that Booth took and welcomed the unsubtle hint to give him a therbert and a long hug before setting his boy down and exchanging goodbyes. He watched his son jog sturdily up the walk to his party, then felt his heart flip when Parker turned at the door to give him a wave before going in.

_Maybe one of these days it won't be too-short weekends and not knowing if work's going to get in the way the next. Maybe someday when he's older I can convince Becs to do the joint custody thing. Maybe when he's older, he'll decide he wants to live with me full time. Maybe someday I'll have another little boy or girl who needs me as Parker's starting not to. I miss not tying his shoes and zipping his pants for him._

He shook his head and got back in the truck, deciding he'd better get going before he starting looking like one of those crazy noncustodial fathers who kidnapped their kids just because they needed to see them more than they already did. _I would never do that. Just make it so that living with me was the preferred alternative. Him and Bones. Although within that framework, whatever it takes. Really._

When he got home, he cleaned up the usual cluttered chaos that a seven year old naturally inspired, then put Parker's discarded clothes and used sheets and towels in the laundry. Bones' suitcase of diaries was sitting in his bedroom-- he'd left it unopened while Parker was here, not knowing how he'd react once he started, and not wanting to turn into a vomiting, blubbering, angry or grief-filled mess in front of his son. He'd always told Parker it was okay to cry and be sad, but being occasionally sad at normal situations and being the big messed-up ball of emotions that Booth was right now was something totally different.

Before he tackled it, he called Bones, and she picked up.

"Booth, hello," she said, sounding distracted.

"Hey, Bones. How are you?"

"Fine, she replied readily."

"I was just wondering if I could bring you supper?"

"Sure," she said, then conferred-- "we should be done by when, five, Jack?" and the bug man's murmured agreement.

"Yes," Bones said more positively. "Come by anytime after five."

"Okay ..." he said, wondering if she was going to find him a blithering fool if he started needing to end every conversation with an '_I love you_.'

"Love you, Booth," she said shyly. "See you later," then hung up.

"Love you too, Bones," he said to the air. It was true, even if she missed hearing it just then.

Eyeing the suitcase, he heaved it up on the bed, used the small key she'd left him, and dove in as he wondered if he would drown.

* * *

In an hour, he was exhausted. He'd started with the ones from a few months before his shooting-- he was crying within ten minutes of starting the first one.

He'd always known Bones embodied "Still waters run deep," and he'd felt privileged to have convinced her to confide in him the little she had, but this-- this was different. Reading it, it still sounded like her-- she didn't speculate on why she felt a certain way-- but she literally recorded every thought, every feeling she had. She didn't hesitate to confess her confusion to herself about things-- his whipsaw behavior toward her with regard to his line and whether she dated one thing of many over which she was confused. He didn't know how far it went back-- the first one he'd read seemed to indicate she'd had feelings for him for some time, but that she was confused by his conduct and in any event insecure about whether he was even interested in her. Nothing he ever would have thought of-- and now he was ashamed as he recalled things that had happened between them and now read Bones' take on things, because he'd clearly hurt her feelings more than she ever let on, and also clearly had failed to give her credit when credit was due. Her own angered rants about when he patronized or corrected her about her weapons-handling or pop-culture knowledge were revelations in themselves, and he grew angry at himself even as he sniffled his way through his continuing reading.

He beamed, then felt his heart clench at reading "_Booth is exceptionally talented and natural with children, and was able to sooth Andy in circumstances where I did not comprehend the cause of his upset. Regardless, however, Andy is such an engaging infant, and caring for him reminded me of why I don't want children-- the risk of what could happen to one of my children if there were no Carol Grant and her husband_."

The next line prompted another ragged sniffle. "_Booth's remarks about a weekend getaway cabin were too tempting, but I could never share a living arrangement with someone who thought of himself as just my partner. It would be too painful_."

Her father's trial had him sobbing outright. When it first started, she had a long entry that started "_I think he is worried that I would somehow ever be angry at him for whatever the results are of this trial. I couldn't. It hurts, the prospect that my father might face a worth fate than jail for the rest of his life, but I cannot disagree that he needs to resolve the issue within the confines of the justice system. If I disagree, then there is no purpose in my continuing to consult with the FBI, and I do want to continue that work. I wish that I could find it in myself to view the situation from Booth's 'Old West' perspective-- but I cannot. Some part of me still believes that a true vigilante lawman would have loaded the whole family back into the wagon no matter how far they had to travel_. _That it took Booth to convince my father of that speaks to the fact that he is the true lawman, one who understands that there are some universal rules of human conduct that apply regardless of more frontier-type justice-- including standing one's ground when called to account."_

And then there was that reversal in the case, and Caroline was allowed the chance to find the murder weapon, the one that was home in Brennan's house, the one she'd seen as soon as she came home that day. "_He committed murders in my house, with my artifacts, turning my life upside down again, all for my own good, he says. I don't care if it was for my own good. But it would be good for Russ. He is good for Russ. He is less adrift with Dad to focus upon_.

_I don't need him. I'm not even sure that I want him. And yet part of me hopes-- if he stays around this time, as Booth seems to think he will, maybe he will finally explain why in enough detail for me to really understand why they left, why taking us with them wasn't an option. Part of me wants to punish him, not by ignoring him but by telling him everything that happened to me after he left, make him realize that running from a band of murderous criminals was far better than what happened thereafter to me. I want him to realize, to promise he won't do it to Russ and his girls, since they love him and need him far less equivocally than I. But I can't punish him if I don't help him beat the charges_ _within the legal means available_. _Which now requires reasonable doubt, not the defeat of scientific proof as I'd hoped. And I have more than reasonable doubt-- if I but my heart into overdrive as Booth suggests, while he ever forgive me? Or will I have strayed too close to what he needs so much from his job-- certainty, faith in the system, belief that people he knows are guilty will go away, and not escape on a technicality?_"

She had a very short account of the verdict. _"I was happy to see my father walk out a free man. I was joyful to see Booth approach me freely, without hesitation. I could have stood to lose my father again. I'm sure losing Booth would have been far harder, impossible, even."_

At that point he was blubbering so hard he had to go run a cold washcloth over his face before he could keep reading. His heart stopped when he found the one from when he was shot, and her thoughts on the Tommy Sauer murder, and her insecurities about singing after he teased her in her office.

"_Booth already thinks I'm a fool when it comes to popular culture. It would hardly do to humiliate myself further_, _simply because my mother was telling me polite lies too many years ago_" she'd written the night before they solved the case and he'd made arrangements for everyone to egg her on to sing at the Checkerbox. His heart twisted, because what she'd written there evidenced that she'd taken to heart his and Sweets' teasing that her mother was just being nice when she said Bones sang better than Cyndi Lauper. Yet again proof that he'd breached the trust to know her own heart better than she did. Of course, Bones' mom had been right-- she _did_ sing better than Cyndi Lauper, and it wasn't just his own love for her talking. He snorfled again at the proof of how seriously Bones took everything he said-- and at how in her literal way she failed to understand his sarcasm for what it was meant to be. Her credulous acceptance of anything interpersonal about her or them that he said, contrasted with her own internal confusion and loneliness-- well, he could never let himself hurt her again. He had to be vigilant. She was too precious not to.

The next entry was almost a week after he'd died, and it was only a few sentences. "_I should have told him I loved him. I should have seen her come in-- I knew she was dangerous. I should have pushed him out of the way and taken it myself-- it's not like anyone needs me_."

He put the book down carefully and bawled. When he stopped, he plugged through the rest-- Zach, Booth's loutish behavior about her dates when they came back from England, her anger at herself and at Jared because she'd "_credited someone I shouldn't just because I wrongly assumed that Jared would be as honorable as his brother_." That set him off bawling again, as he recalled how angry he'd been, even though it was his own damned fault-- it wasn't like he'd ever told her anything much about himself before now. And there she was, disappointed and angry at herself because she trusted someone he'd raised as best as he could to tell the truth-- and then to be incredibly worried for weeks afterward that he wouldn't ever really forgive her.

When he stopped, finally, it was late afternoon and his nose was totally stuffed up, his eyes too swollen from crying to read anymore. He decided he'd better take a break, so he took a shower and pulled out some fresh clothes.

"You're an idiot, Seeley," he muttered to himself as he stood in the shower. As he rubbed the soapy water over his face, he reflected that reading these things Bones let him have access to was like a reverse reflection of every insecurity he'd ever felt about her-- what she thought about his integrity, his intelligence, his professionalism, those bits of his past that he did tell her about. But instead, she accorded him respect and doubted herself, even as he doubted himself and counted her indifferent to or ignorant of his interest. She hadn't been-- she'd been as confused as he was.

He finished washing up, rinsing and shaving as he dripped on his bathmat. When he got dressed again, he regarded the volumes he'd already read, and put them gently back in the place where she'd set them in the suitcase. He was emotionally exhausted and needed dearly to see her and hold her and reassure both of them that they'd be okay, but there was one thing he was curious about. He'd been frantic when she was taken by the Gravedigger, despite the fact that it took until Sully came along for him to really know _why _he'd been so ready to kill anyone who hurt her, and how frightened that realization made him. She'd never told him exactly what happened down in that car, and he flushed with shame as he realized he'd never asked, though he always made it a point to show up with takeout before midnight and some lousy excuse for paperwork every time the anniversary rolled around. He used a small knife to unseal the ones she said came from the second year they worked together, then reached for one in the middle. Since it was Bones, of course the dates were written right on the first page, so he skipped ahead two more and found the right book.

She hadn't dwelt on the minutiae of all the MacGyver tricks the two of them pulled to get them out of the car-- Hodgins told them all about that a few days after, while Bones disappeared into her office when the the bug man began to effusively praise her ingenuity. Instead, she wrote about how terrified she was until she realized she had to keep Hodgins going, how hard it had been to keep up a brave front, how worried she'd been that she'd killed him when she relieved his compartment syndrome, her worry for Russ and the rest of the squints, her realization after some conversation she'd had with Hodgins about faith that she did, indeed, have faith in Booth.

And then there was a space, and another line at the bottom of the page.

"_I have to leave the note in the evidence bag, but Hodgins wrote a goodbye note and this is a copy of mine_."

The next page revealed a photocopy folded in quarters. He opened and read it, found his heart smashed open all over again.

_"Booth--_

_If you read this then I've failed to get you the information you needed to get Hodgins and I out of here in time. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out where we were. Please know that it isn't your fault, and that we both knew you did everything you could, between you and the team, to find us._

_I hope you catch him. I hope you keep catching them all._

_I'm sorry I won't be able to keep helping you with your list. I'd have liked to help you see the end of it-- make the way out of your forest, to steal your metaphor from you._

_Thank you for being my partner. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for letting me help you on your cases in the small ways I've been able to. Thank you for helping me so much, and for making me let you._

_You've talked about black magic, and God, and love at first sight, all sorts of things I'm too cynical to believe in. But you believe in them, and that's enough for me. It has been, for a while now. I'm sorry I couldn't get us enough air to tell you I'd have liked to try to believe in some of the things you do. Faith's not easy to have-- you're stronger than I am. But I have faith, though it's silly at this point to say so, that I would have been willing to try to believe in some of the things you do, if you wanted to-- especially the love part._

_I would have liked to try. I'm sorry it took me until now to figure it out._

_Temperance  
Bones"_

She'd addressed her last words to him. Not her brother. Not Angela. Him. And oh, what last words they were. He would have died of a broken heart immediately after reading this, had reading it been necessary.

Her next entry was about how she'd found out he was dating Cam. "_I suppose it's as well, I can't even keep myself from getting kidnapped. I wish he'd trusted me enough to tell me about her_. _Better I kept my mouth shut_ _right afterward despite the urge to just kiss him_."

He put it down before wiping more snot and tears from his face, then grabbed his jacket and headed out. He'd read the rest later if she let him, but right now, he had to show her how wrong he'd been, how wrong she'd been, how right they could make it again if she'd just let him.

* * *

Brennan was curled on her sofa, a book in her lap and a frown on her face as she wondered and worried what Booth would think of her once he was done reading whatever he felt like he could stand to know about her. He had to have been reading some of it today-- he'd said he was only going to have Parker until just early afternoon, and it was several hours past when she'd said Jack would be gone now. Perhaps he wouldn't come at all. Perhaps he might not even call. She was nauseous in anticipation of the fact that he might reject her-- not just for her insecurities about him, but for the things she'd written about her time in the system, her thoughts about her past relationships and the cynical reasons why she didn't believe in love, her dark experiences during those foreign digs and consultations gone horribly wrong. What would he think once he knew how truly damaged she was? She tried to ignore the way her hands shook as she picked up her teacup, and took another sip of the herbal tea that was supposed to have calming properties. _Kind of hard to calm yourself when you've just completely exposed your whole life to the once person who has the power to wreck you completely, Temperance. _She hated bitter internal monologues-- they always worked their way onto the pages of her journal, and reminded her that the contentment she often thought she'd finally found wasn't complete, and that she was still deeply lonely.

The key turned in her lock and Booth entered, calling "Temperance?" tentatively.

"Living room," she responded, her stomach plummeting until she could see his face, try to gauge his mood. She didn't wait long. Booth entered the room and gently pulled her up from the chair, saying nothing as he looked deeply at her.

His eyes were puffy, his nose red, and after a long moment's searching look of whatever fear and uncertainty showed in her face. he pulled her tenderly into his arms, sealing his lips over hers. His tongue sought entrance, his mouth slanted firmly on hers, his arms clasping her tightly but carefully, still conscious of her injury. Her half-second's fearful surprise melted-- giving way to disbelief, and joy, and incredible hunger. She grabbed hold of his arms, holding on to keep herself upright as she kissed him back, tasting him all over again. She would never grow tired of his mouth, his eyes, his hands and arms-- never grow tired of him.

He tasted and teased her, worried her lower lip with his teeth as she did the same, caressed his tongue with her own. He groaned into her mouth as she lightly sucked at his tongue, then did the same in return. She broke off gasping for air, only to have him grasp the back of her head to suck at her neck.

Somehow, she wasn't quite sure, because she was too busy kissing him back and gasping at the feel of his mouth on her as she tasted and felt the smooth sculpted planes of his body, she found herself in just her underwear next to the bed and Booth in only his boxers. He was nipping his way over the back of her shoulders and neck as he stood behind her, unclasping her bra and pulling her flush to him as he caressed her breasts with those hands she'd fantasized about all too often. Her head fell back against his chest, her eyes closed in pleasure, as he cupped her in his palms and brushed his thumbs over her nipples. The gentle touch sent shivers through her. "Wanted ... you ... so ... much ... so ... long," he said gruffly as he sucked at the side of her neck. "Love you so ... much," he continued, his hands at her breasts massaging and caressing her until she was ready to melt. "So ... wrong ... to wait," he said in her ear, right before sucking her earlobe, the heat of his skin on her back scorching. She gasped "Booth," and wobbled a little as he kneaded her breasts more firmly-- he promptly turned her to pick her up at the waist and place her on top of the bed.

She'd seen his eyes blackened with anger or contempt. She'd never seen them near-amber with hunger and love and desire. They were all of those now. He crawled in over her, then stopped, eyes closed, as she grasped him through his boxers, testing his hard length with her hand. She stifled her own gasp at his size-- she supposed since everything else about him was perfectly structured, that same rule should apply here. He groaned as she stroked him again, then pushed his shorts down so she could look at him.

He was hard and drawn tight-- because he wanted _her_. It was the last part that made her eyes well with tears she didn't dare shed. She hadn't ever quite hoped he actually wanted her, as much as he'd said it these past few days. Carefully, she took hold of him again, enjoying his heat and smooth firmness. Her walls cramped at the thought of his being inside her, a rush of wetness and another shiver encompassing her. As she stroked him again, almost mesmerized by the sight and feel of him, she felt her own body respond to his evident arousal-- her nipples grew tight at his uneven breathing and occasional growls as she continued to stroke him. She shuddered at hearing his groaned "Bones" when she stroked him with one hand while she rubbed her other palm over his glans. As she did it again he gritted his jaw, a look of pained concentration on his face, then pulled away from her. Kneeling up, he tugged off his own boxers, then looked at her, his eyes hot with a hunger as strong as her own.

He leant forward then, kissing and sucking his way down her neck as he slid his arms under her, his palms cradling her under her shoulders as he bent to take her breast into his mouth. He circled her nipple lightly, flicking and pressing and stroking, holding her to him even as her back arched under the sensations he was drawing from her. He started to suckle, the firm press of his lips and light nip of his teeth on her heating her further. She cried out as he pulled her yearning nipple hard into his mouth, her need for him building almost impossibly high. She was holding onto his arms, her hands reflexively opening and closing as his mouth continued to work its magic on her, her nails digging in as she squirmed without conscious control of her movements. No one had drawn such abandon from her-- no, she'd never abandoned herself this way before. But giving him those journals already let him fully inside her head and her heart. It was fitting that she let him all the way inside her body.

He switched his attentions to her other breast and worshiped it equally as she cried her appreciation, her hips thrusting unconsciously toward him where he knelt over her, whispering things like "so beautiful," and "so sorry," and "never hurt you again" in between the torturous attentions of his mouth on her breasts and his hands, kneading and stroking her back, sides and hips as she writhed under him.

Her breath was sobbing in her chest when he let go with one last soft kiss, then licked his way toward her navel as she panted "Oh, God, Booth, please." She didn't know quite what she needed, what she was saying please for-- it didn't matter as long as it was Booth responding.

He shifted, pulling her underwear from her as he continued to suck at her navel. As soon as she was free of the fabric, he slid his hands up the back of her legs to cradle her hips in his hands, still sucking at her.

"So beautiful," he breathed against the skin of her stomach, looking up at her with ardent devotion before lowering his head to kiss her stomach again, then bite at her iliac crest. She arched in surprise at the feel of his teeth, then cried out in astonishment as he took the moment of her surprise to push his face between her legs and seal his mouth over her center.

His hands underneath her tipped her up to receive him, and he began to taste her with such relish and enjoyment that she moaned again. His lips and mouth sucked and kissed and caressed, his tongue flickered and pressed and pushed, his teeth nipped and teased. He circled and stroked his tongue over her painfully aroused clitoris, a mewl of his name leaving her each time he did so. Her hands were uselessly clasping the bedsheets as he started to drink from her, and when he thrust his tongue into her core with such a firm first thrust, she screamed in surprise, the sensation utterly new despite past lovers. He continued to thrust and suck at her core as she writhed, now senseless to the noise she was making-- the only thing she could sense was her aching need and his teasing mouth at her center. Her hips bucked against him, and he pulled her tightly to him, grunting his own approval at her response as she started to whimper with unbearable need.

"God," he gasped, pausing for air, "I love you so much," he said, then pulled her back as he sealed his lips over her clitoris again. She wailed as he increased the pressure of his lips on her, dimly aware she was begging as she grabbed at his hair-- then found sweet release as he let go of one hip long enough to slip two fingers inside her. He curled his fingers against her g-spot as he continued to suck her sensitive nub. She felt her whole body seize, such an overwhelming wash of sensation jolting her that she was practically blinded-- but the sensation only built as she felt Booth's arms slide up under her back and he sheathed himself in her with a long groan of his own. Her own orgasm still held her tightly, her walls contracting and flooding anew as Booth withdrew and stroked into her again. She cried out as he returned to her and filled her completely, her cry of "I love you!" as abandoned as her body's response to him.

He filled her smoothly again as she regained enough control of her limbs to hook her ankles behind him and take him further inside, her own moan of satisfaction met by his own rasped "Temperance" as she took him all the way in. Grasping the back of his neck, she tugged his head down so she could kiss him, tasting herself in his mouth along with his own cinnamon-coffee taste. She groaned as he returned to her again, the washes of pleasure their movements sent through her so intense that she thought she might faint.

"Baby," he groaned in her ear as they parted for air, "so ... unbelievable," he said, then filled her more firmly.

Her cry of surprise earned her a similar thrust, so she grabbed his shoulders as she hooked her ankles more firmly behind him. "Oh... Booth ... more," she pled. "Never ... enough," she continued, then whimpered as her thrust upward to meet him was met with a forceful thrust of his own.

"Never enough, Bones," he groaned, holding her so tightly their chests crushed together as he levered himself to pump into her even more quickly.

His heat filled and spread her, and she was fully consumed by their mutual hunger. Another orgasm ripped through her and she screamed his given name "Seeley," losing her hold on him from the force of the sensations coursing through her. He jerked as she contracted around him while calling his name, and his thrusts became more uneven. "Oh, God, Temperance," he grunted, "come for me again, love," he urged, clasping the side of her face as he looked at her, their eyes locked as he called her. She was still whimpering from her last orgasm when she felt the hand that cradling her hips stroke its way over her clitoris, his fingers rolling that bud as he jerked into her again, losing control of his own rhythm.

"Please, Bones," he said, squeezing her bundle of nerves lightly once, then again as she moaned and tried to cling to him, her limbs weakened with need. With one last caress of his fingers, she shattered, her walls squeezing him tightly as a rush of liquid escaped her, the heated clenching of her walls on him driving him over the edge. He gave a wordless roar of release as he exploded within her, the hard pulse of his length drawing a faint whimper from her. His limbs trembling, he collapsed to the side of her as he rolled her on top of him.

She turned to look at him, tears leaking unprompted over her cheeks. She knew her own were from unexpected joy and relief, but was surprised to see he was crying as well, the same stunned look on his face that she expected was a mirror of hers.

Sniffling, she wiped her palm over his cheeks, and snorfling, he did the same for her tears. She smiled in disbelief all over again, then started to laugh, his own baritone rumble joining her alto. He pulled her closer to him then, until she was flush with his length, and tipped her head back to look at him at his eyes continued to sparkle warm amber.

"Not too much baggage?" she asked, still feeling uncertain.

"Never," was his simple reply before he kissed her and they began all over again.


	30. Chapter 30

**_Sort of a filler chapter. But there's more actual action to come. At least I threw in some filler smut, too.

* * *

_**

"You okay?" Booth asked Bones as she slowly stretched after he swatted off the alarm, its rude morning blare calling them both back to attention. It was warm in Bones' bedroom, the closed curtains making it feel like a cocoon, and the soft weight of her comforter over them made him sure he never wanted to get up-- especially with Bones curled over him and his arms around her. _Her bare skin._ Especially after the way she'd responded to him last night when they started again.

It was amazing, the way she'd touched and caressed him-- the way she'd kissed him, met every thrust, made the most wonderful sounds in response to a really nice start all of the things he'd dreamt of doing with her-- it felt like a dream but it wasn't, because here they were in her bed.

Their second round of lovemaking last night started off langorously. She'd pressed him back into the bed, her talented hands and mouth drawing him so close for so long that he was trembling and sweating from need until he pushed her away so he could lay her beneath him and explore her heat with his hands -- as well as better enjoy the wanton expressions passing over her face as he delved into her center.

When she came, gripping his fingers as she cried his name mindlessly, he pulled her just to the edge of the bed and knelt, stroking just inside her entrance. She squirmed, and he couldn't resist teasing her as he withdrew and returned only an inch at a time, her head thrown back as she bucked into him, trying to bring him closer. Only when she was whining as she trembled and sweated as much as she'd made him earlier did he thrust himself home-- she climaxed almost instantly as he pumped into her, his own orgasm exploding through him not long afterward.

No one had quite responded like this to him before, and he'd never lost so much control to anyone either. But Bones had laid herself completely bare to him and he counted himself a lucky, miserable bastard that she let him in-- all the way.

He trailed his hand lightly over her spine, reveling in the soft feel of her skin under his palms. As he'd explored her and tasted her, he'd felt and seen scars of various types, mostly older. He determined to ask her about them-- sometime. Maybe she wrote about them and she'd let him read about them instead. Whatever their source, it had been some time since she'd earned them.

She was so beautiful-- to him. There were more textbook beautiful women out there, but her stubborn jaw, her generous curves, her flashing eyes, that slow smile so often only for him-- all made her more beautiful to him than anyone else he'd known-- though it was her brilliance, her passionate integrity, her sense of self-sacrifice that illuminated everything else.

"Mmmm," she said, cracking an eye. "Fine," she replied, seeming to understand that he was asking about her neck more than about them. "Not too tight, despite all that vigorous exercise." She gave him a feline smile at that remark, stretching further and making a satisfied noise as she rolled onto her back, twisting her head back and forth as she looked at him.

"Good," he replied, regretting that they'd set the alarm late enough that there would only be time to really get ready for work. "I suppose we have to go to work," he grumbled aloud.

"And eat breakfast," she teased, eyes sparkling. "Since that's the only thing mornings are good for."

The light of challenge was in her eyes as she said it, and he couldn't resist just a tease back. Shifting upward and back, he bent his head to her breasts, mumbling "I can think of a few other things" before he sucked one tight rose nipple into his mouth.

"Booth," she hissed, then squirmed and groaned when he slid one testing finger into her heat.

"Screw breakfast," he groaned as she closed her hand around him in response. "We can pick something up on the way."

* * *

_I never used to offer to carry girls' schoolbags, but none of them quite looked like Bones, either, _Booth thought as he followed his partner? girlfriend? lover? Bones into the lab, lugging the weekend's worth of work in two bags she'd somehow smuggled home. They weren't too late-- Cam still wasn't in, though Jack was and Angela too.

While Jack just smiled knowingly, Angela's sex-seeking radar apparently flashed, because her head whipped around as soon as Bones turned the corner into the main part of the lab and a leer the size of Cleveland bloomed on her face. She practically ran over, stillettoes and tight skirt being no impediment to Angela on a matchmaking mission.

"Studly," she said appraisingly, looking him over as Bones rolled her eyes and kept walking, a silly smile on her face nevertheless. "How are we this morning?"

Booth chuckled as they both followed Bones into her office, Angela clearly waiting for details. Booth set Bones' things down, ducked in to kiss her before she could swat him for getting all PDA in the workplace, and headed out before Angela could press him for details.

It didn't work. As he was headed back out the door, Ange called after him. "She's still walking straight! You can do better than that!"

* * *

Most of Booth's bullpen was still straggling in for the day as he walked into his office, unable to stop the spring in his step and the urge to whistle one of his favorite and most vulgar Army cadences. Charlie looked at him askance, probably wondering if Booth had gone manic depressive and was now on an upswing. _I have been a goddamned moody Mary. I'd better order in pizza or something. _

Whistling, he sat down at his desk, booted things up, and looked around at the pile of papershit (as he liked to call it) lying in stacks all over the place. _Make hay while the sun shines, Seeley. You clear up some of this crap on your desk there's more time to have more time with Bones. _

Three hours later, his admins were groaning and so were his desk jockeys, since he'd managed to plow through about two thirds of the stacks on his desk. Amazing what a little Bones lovin' could do. _Okay. A lot of Bones lovin'. Heh. _Looking at the clock, he saw it was not long until people would start ducking out for lunch, so he made good on his internal promise, picked up the phone, called in an order, and sent out an email to his department. 

_Hungry Bastards--_

_Pizza, salad, soda and cookies in the large conference room at 12:30. Quit complaining and get back to work._

_SB._

Not two minutes later, there were calls of "Woohoo! Lunch!" out in the bullpen.

_Freeloading hungry bastards. _He went back to work, singing under his breath "_Jesse James before he died, named five things he wanted to ride, bicycle, tricycle automobile..._"

_

* * *

_

The week proceeded smoothly. Booth had a few cases not involving the lab; Brennan had a few paper and x-ray based consults. He stayed one night at his place after staying out late at a stakeout.

"I didn't sleep well," he grumbled when he came in to her office early the next morning with coffees and muffins for both of them, setting them down on her coffee table and flopping down onto her sofa. Brennan smiled at him slightly before signing something and setting it into her outbox and joining him.

"Hey, baby," he murmured into her hair when she sat next to him and let him pull her into his side.

"No baby at work," she said, reaching forward and taking her coffee. "It's bad enough I let you get away with it in bed."

He rumbled a laugh, then took up his own coffee and slung his feet up onto her table.

"Booth. Off," she said, swatting at his legs. He grinned, clearly testing her, then did as she'd hoped and took his feet off the table as he leant forward to give her a real good morning kiss.

"You have PT at lunchtime?" he asked, watching as she sipped her coffee again.

"Mmm. No," she replied. "Moved it until 5-- I need to do a make-up seminar and I'm going to have the students come here to Limbo."

"Do you need a ride?" he asked, clearly concerned since she'd been twingy enough, off and on, that she'd mostly avoided driving until now.

"No, I drove," she replied, smoothing her hand over his leg. "Those stretches are helpful and it's much better already."

Brennan was mostly telling the truth. She no longer had excruciating jabbing pain from her fingertips to the top of her skull, and her cervical range of motion was significantly improved, but she did still have unpredictable twinges that were somewhat startling. She was trying to be deliberate in her movements, and that seemed to help markedly, but she was looking forward to her massage tomorrow. She did tighten up doing her normal activities, and found that lying down on the floor in her office as she did her stretches was more helpful than standing, since it allowed for her lower back musculature to relax bilaterally. But she was healing, and she didn't want to alarm Booth by giving him too many details-- though of course if he asked directly she would answer. But having Booth worry wouldn't help her heal faster, and she still caught him looking at her guiltily despite the fact that they'd been over the incident several times.

Certainly, "keeping her muscles warm" had certainly worked to keep her from stiffening up too much overnight, she thought with a smirk as she tore off a piece of her muffin. She and Booth hadn't quite been "making up for lost time" as Angela put it, but she hadn't slept nearly as well last night has she had since he'd first appeared at her apartment last week and she'd allowed him to stay, and not just because of their sexual intercourse.

"What are you smirking about?" Booth asked after gulping the last bite of his muffin.

"That's for me to know and you to come over later and find out about." He laughed and leant over to snag the rest of her muffin, but she was quick enough to pull it away and hold it just out of his grasp.

"You're always on about me eating food, but now you just try to eat mine," she said teasingly.

"Gets you back for all those french fries," he said with a smirk, then reached further and pulled it out of her hand. Brennan let go without struggle, having already eaten as much as she wanted. She stood, brushing off crumbs, and gave him what she admitted was a wholly-unlike-her peck on his cheek before finishing her coffee and dropping it into the trash. _My dopamine and norepinepherine levels have been consistently high, and I have engaged in heretofore uncharacteristic behavior. I would be more concerned, I suppose, if I hadn't already been so distraught at the idea of not having him around-- but mushy-brained behavior plus Booth is to be preferred to presumed rationality and no Booth at all._

* * *

The therapist removed the hot towels from her neck, then tested her passive range of motion with one hand at the join of her neck and the other at her elbow, moving her gently. "Much better," he said, then helped her sit up. They added two new stretches to her neck stretching routine, including as well as a higher count to hold each old stretch after Brennan demonstrated her progress. The therapist then showed Brennan a new passive stretch to do-- two tennis balls, taped side by side with athletic tape. "You should place this at the base of your cervical spine, right at C7-T1. Allow the head to tilt back, and the two points will work their way into the muscles to relax them. Once you can tolerate that sensation, you should raise your arms as if you are doing the backstroke." He went on to discuss repetitions and durations and had her try the exercises herself. Brennan asked a few questions as they worked, then the therapist then had her stand and practice new arm stretches using therabands to take advantage of her resumed range of motion.

When they were done, Brennan slipped her blouse back on over the tank top she wore to therapy so that the therapist could use his hot towels and better observe her progress. "You're doing well," he said cheerfully. "You should be back to normal in another three weeks or so."

She called Booth as she drove home. His response after his greeting was typical Booth. "Are you on a headset? Because I can tell you don't have me on speakerphone. You should really be using a hands free headset until your neck gets better."

"Booth."

"Sorry."

"Are you still at work?" she asked, debating as to her next plans. She could go back to the lab and do a bit more work. The make-up seminar had gone well and the students seemed to grasp the lesson very well, but Brennan still had a few things to catch up on and she'd promised Jack she'd look at another paper for him before the weekend was out. She never would have expected one of the side effects of she and Booth falling out to be that she and Jack would become faster friends, but it was something that should have happened earlier, and she was glad she could be a "science-y dork friend" as Jack put it. She was no Zack-- would never be-- but she and Jack had their own way of getting along. As long as he didn't ask her to take up beetle-racing, they should be fine. Thank goodness Wendell was there to complement Jack's mischievous side and propose experiments.

"I was just packing up," came Booth's voice through her reverie. "Did you eat?"

"What do you think?" she asked. "Diner? Or the bar?" If she went back to work she would tense up again. At least if they went out to eat she'd be sitting and putting less pressure on her body. Eating it was.

"I want potato skins, so the bar," came his response. "But I want to change first. Meet you at home?"

"Sure..." Brennan said automatically. She hung up after a short further exchange, setting her phone down and musing more seriously.

_When did "home" become my apartment for both of us? I'm not quite sure what that means._

Setting the thought aside in her "_to be journalled_" mental compartment, she drew her attention back to the road, but not before thinking a little bit further. _I haven't really journalled-- something more than a few jottings-- all week, except for that night Booth was out on that stakeout. It's all good, so far, as Ange would say but ... well, I'll think about that later. I could use some vegetarian nachos and beer._

She then snorted to herself at her food cravings. If she let them both eat like Booth ate all the time she would need a cholesterol-reducing statin within the next year or so. For now, though, she set her mind to enjoy the interlude. More serious and permanent thoughts could come later.

* * *

"Oh God, Bones," Booth moaned as she backed him against the wall of her shower later that night and knelt down to start licking his penis. "Jesus, woman," he hissed as she sucked him in, laving his shaft with long firm strokes of her tongue in alternation with the slow hard slide of her lips over him. He threaded his hands in her hair, holding on despite the wall at his back, intermittently groaning or cursing as she used her mouth on him while she massaged his testicles with her hand. It was certainly gratifying how much Booth seemed to enjoy the oral sex she administered, and she had to admit she enjoyed it herself, though the inevitable way he would stop her and respond because "_there's no way I'm going off in your mouth when I could be inside you_," as he'd said one time-- well, it was more than rewarding.

This time was no different, and she could tell he was close to the edge when he groaned and tugged at her hair, drawing her up before he lifted her against the wall and speared himself into her core. Brennan's legs clamped hard around him, her head falling back into the wall as he shifted his hold on her, the motion bringing her deeper inside. Her own moan of appreciation was loud and bounced off the walls of her shower, adding to the sensory overload of the hot water pelting their skin, the smell of her soap, the feel of his hands on her.

She shifted her grip, looping her left arm around the back of his neck to hold on as they started to move in tandem, rocking their hips against one another. She built quickly as Booth sucked at each inch of skin he could reach, licking and kissing the water from her skin as she moaned "Booth" and "Seeley" in response to each finished thrust. Soon she was wordless, her grip on him looser, more erratic as she gave herself over to the waves of heat coursing through her, and she felt Booth shift again, bearing her weight into the wall with his own so he wouldn't drop her. "Now, oh, now," she moaned at last, unable to stand the tension any longer-- he obliged, slamming into her with hard grunts in time with her own wordless cries as he came to the end of her walls.

Her scream of release was met by his groan into her ear as he leant his forehead against the wall. "Mmmmph. Jesus, Bones. You're going to kill me," he rasped in her ear.

Swallowing, she cracked one eye to take in the pleased and tired look on his face. "Me too. But what a way to go." His rumbled laugh in her ear and in his chest against hers as the water still coursed over them brought an answering smile to her face. It was nice to smile so often, she decided. More permanently elevated levels of dopamine and norepinepherine were quite sustaining.

_Love, Temperance. Stop being so technical and quit analyzing it so much. While old habits die hard, some deserve to be put to rest. _


End file.
